3210 


THE  CARNIVAL 
OF  DESTINY 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
.       SAN  OIEQO 

^-- a   —      — 


3  1822  01107  3210 


THE   CARNIVAL   OF  DESTINY 


'Her  t'vc>  were-  sK-adv — and  hard" 


THE  CARNIVAL 
OF  DESTINY 


BY 

VANCE  THOMPSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "DRINK  AND  BE  SOBER,"  "EAT  AND  GROW 
THIK,"  "THE  EGO  BOOK,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 


TO  MY  WIFE 

Lady,  what  of  lovers  true, 
When  they  lie  down,  two  by  two, 
Under  linen  bands  and  rue, 
Dead — who  loved  so  truly? 

In  the  dim  earth  lie  they  low, 
Side  by  side,  and  do  not  know, 
With  the  worm  for  bedfellow, 
Dead — who  loved  so  truly. 

Through  the  shroud  and  linen  band 
They  can  touch  nor  knee  nor  hand, 
Give  nor  take  nor  understand, 
Dead — who  loved  so  truly. 

Over  them  the  dim  years  flow ; 
Life  calls  to  them  "Live !"  and,  lo, 
They  are  flower  and  flower,  and  know- 
They  who  love  so  truly. 

So  they  pass  the  cycle  through 
Love  and  die  and  live  anew, 
Side  by  side ;  for  lovers  true, 
Love  but  once :  forever. 


PREFACE 

He  in  whom  life  is  potent  has  journeyed 
long  through  the  years,  acquiring,  attaining, 
perfecting  the  machine  which  is  his  Ego. 

For  him,  as  for  others,  existence  is  a  closed 
door,  behind  which  mysterious  silences  stretch 
away.  Yet  now  and  then  he  hears  faint  sound 
in  the  corridor — shadowy  steps  and  voices. 
But  does  he  hear?  He  does  not  know. 

Walking  in  a  crowded  street  he  sees  a  face; 
and  it  haunts  him,  he  knows  not  why.  And 
he  says  to  himself: 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  that  face  before,  but  not 
as  now — I  did  not  see  that  face  in  a  crowded 
street."  Suddenly  an  inevitable  memory  rises 
in  him.  The  sight  of  that  face  has  created  a 
vision  of  a  wet  roadway,  of  swords,  of  torches, 
of  blood.  And  he  knows.  Nor  does  it  seem 
strange  to  meet,  thus,  in  a  crowded  street,  him 
whom  he  killed  in  the  gray  mist  of  time. 
Again  and  again  in  the  centuries  he  shall  meet 
and  know  him — as  when  first  he  saw  him  in  the 


PREFACE 

torchlight,  his  enemy.  Life  is  so  long,  so  long 
— and  there  is  no  end- 
Men  and  women  I  know  passed  in  their  in 
terminable  journey  down  the  years;  in  the 
darkness.  Now  and  then  I  saw  them — as  night- 
farers  see  the  word  on  a  sign-post  by  the  light 
of  a  carriage-lamp,  held  high.  So  they  stood 
for  a  moment,  urgent  and  proximate,  in  a  wav 
ering  circle  of  light ;  they  stepped  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  years ;  then  darkness  and  silence. 
I  shall  not  see  them  again ;  and  if  I  see  them, 
shall  I  know?  They  have  vanished  into  the 
Presence. 

To-morrow  on  the  bridge  by  the  old  church 
I  may  meet  a  haggard  man  who  has  come  sin 
ning  down  the  years;  and  though  once  he  lay 
in  the  reeds  with  his  black  brother,  the  bull,  and 
dwelt  once  in  the  tenement  of  black  fumes,  I 
shall  not  know  him  as  he  passes,  cloaked  in  his 
unfamiliar  life.  And  he  will  go  his  way  down 
the  long  road  that  has  no  end,  faring  as  men 
must,  in  the  peril  and  presence  of  love. 

For  no  man  journeys  alone.  Always  love 
is  with  him.  Persistent  and  terrible  as  life,  the 
love  that  cannot  die  and  will  not  change  in  all 
the  years.  And  now  it  is  something  white- 
toothed  and  hairy  and  vehement ;  and  now  it  is 


PREFACE 

a  gray  thing  huddled  by  a  tomb ;  but  when  he 
touches  it  on  the  shoulder  it  turns  its  eternal 
eyes  upon  him  and  smiles — and  he  knows  the 
smile  and  the  eternal  eyes. 

"Is  it  you?"  he  whispers. 

And  love  says :  "It  is  always  I." 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  PASSING  OP  THE  HERDS 13 

II  THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA 43 

III  "  MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA  "  .      .      .      .85 

IV  THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO 109 

V  THE  KING  OF  SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER      .      .151 

VI     MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES 191 

VII     THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT 235 

VIII     A  TENEMENT  OF  BLACK  FUMES  .  .   277 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS 


THE  CARNIVAL  OF 
DESTINY 


THE   PASSING  OF   THE   HEEDS 

I 

IT  began  this  way:  Ahi,  who  was  slim  and 
young,  had  captured  the  black  bull-calf.  He 
had  spread  a  snare  for  him  weeks  before; 
many  dawns  he  watched  and  nothing  hap 
pened.  Then  one  morning,  before  the  sun  had 
killed  the  mist,  he  was  lying  by  his  trap  of 
woven  reeds,  there  where  the  cattle  came  down 
to  drink.  They  passed  one  by  one  and  two  by 
two,  the  bulls  leading;  the  cows  with  their 
calves  trailing  after.  Ahi  was  afraid,  for  the 
sun  was  coming  up  and  he  felt  safer  by  night 
than  by  day.  So  this  dawn  the  cattle  came 
from  the  drink,  tossing  their  horned  heads  high, 

13 


14     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

and  taking  the  air  into  their  wet  nostrils.  The 
black  bull-calf  came  last,  wobbling  on  his 
young  legs,  and  Ahi  caught  and  pulled  him 
down.  The  cattle  passed.  The  boy  and  the 
bull-calf  were  left  together  and  so  they  became 
friends.  They  spoke  to  each  other  in  their  own 
fashion  and  life  was  not  wholly  unkind  to  them. 
Ahi  had  a  way  with  him  that  the  bull-calf  un 
derstood.  It  was  a  sort  of  rough  tenderness 
— a  knowledge  of  life — that  made  them  broth 
ers.  They  wandered  together  in  field  and  for 
est.  Alii  knew  where  the  clumps  of  greenest 
grass  grew,  and  thither  he  led  his  friend,  the 
black  bull-calf.  While  the  beast  ate,  Ahi 
squatted  there,  watchful  and  unafraid,  rubbing 
a  flint  against  the  stone,  for  even  then  he 
thought  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  have  a 
weapon. 

All  this  of  course  happened  in  the  long  ago. 
It  was  so  long  ago  that  there  was  still  fog  on 
the  earth  and  men  were  not  quite  men.  They 
went  about  sleepily.  They  had  not  yet 
learned  to  band  themselves  together  in  order 
to  exterminate  their  milder  kinsmen,  who  went 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS       15 

on  all  fours.  That  was  to  come.  It  was  Vah 
who  taught  men  that  they  were  too  intelligent 
not  to  be  cruel.  He  was  a  big  man  who  stood 
quite  erect.  He  had  a  broad,  hairy  breast,  and 
quick-moving,  hairy  hands  that  he  used  like 
tools.  There  was  no  one  who  could  stand 
against  him.  Indeed,  no  one  tried ;  Ahi  sharp 
ening  his  splinter  of  flint,  dreamed  of  the  day 
when  he  might  be  as  strong  as  Vah — but  he 
knew  the  day  would  be  long  in  coming,  so  he 
made  a  strange  little  rhythmic  song  and  sang 
it  to  his  brother,  the  black  bull-calf,  as  they 
ranged  the  swamp  together. 

In  these  foggy  days  of  the  long  ago,  the  ani 
mals  still  ruled  the  world.  The  cattle  held  the 
fields  as  the  birds  held  the  air.  The  great 
herds  roamed,  to  and  fro,  over  the  green  hills 
and  the  fat  plains,  quite  undisturbed,  for  man 
had  not  yet  developed  his  brain  and  that  fine 
fruit  of  his  intelligence — cruelty.  At  night 
when  the  sun  went  down,  the  herds  gathered, 
lowing;  it  was  an  evening  hymn;  bulls  and 
cows  and  calves,  they  lay  down  on  the  thick 
grass,  fearing  nothing.  Man,  the  eternal  en- 


16     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

emy  of  all  that  sleeps,  was  not  born  until  Vah 
came.  Vah's  brothers  who  lived  in  the  reed 
huts  feared  him  first.  Then  the  brotherhood 
of  herds  knew  that  fear  had  crept  among  them. 
At  first  it  was  all  very  vague.  They  saw  the 
deer  pass,  these  night-wanderers,  with  wounds 
in  their  flanks.  They  saw  the  timid  hares  run 
by,  limping  on  broken  feet.  They  asked  them 
selves,  "Who  is  the  enemy?"  Then  one  night 
a  young  heifer  came  home  to  the  meadow  where 
they  pastured.  She  had  seen  strange  things. 
She  had  been  in  the  hands  of  this  new,  cruel 
race — the  race  of  men.  She  had  escaped,  but 
she  had  seen  others  there — the  brothers  they 
had  missed  from  the  herd — harnessed  to  curious 
tools,  whipped  on  to  labor;  and  she  had  seen 
the  night-fires  whereon  her  brothers  were 
roasted,  while  the  race  of  men  gathered  round 
and  tore  at  the  hot  flesh  with  ringers  and  teeth. 
Strange  things  this  heifer  of  the  herd  had 
seen.  The  men  had  built  sleeping-places  for 
themselves,  queer  huts  of  sticks  and  clay;  and 
round  about  they  had  erected  a  barrier  of  wood, 
so  that  none  might  come  near  them.  And 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      17 

always  behind  their  fragile  ramparts  they 
watched,  keen-eyed  and  alert.  When  they 
heard  these  things  the  cattle  rose,  lowing  and 
timorous,  for  the  sense  of  fear  and  the  knowl 
edge  of  man  had  come  to  them.  And  the  bulls 
marshaled  them  and  led  them  away,  across  the 
little  river  and  beyond  many  valleys,  until  they 
came  to  a  quiet  green  place  among  the  hills. 
Here  they  rested.  They  had  not  waited  to 
rescue  their  brothers  who  had  been  captured 
by  the  race  of  men.  They  regretted  the  friends 
who  had  been  captured,  but  the  regret  died 
away  as  they  thought  of  their  own  freedom. 
Far  as  they  could  see  no  smoke  from  a  man's 
fire  clouded  the  horizon.  About  them  were 
the  green  hills  and  not  far  away  was  the  run 
ning  water.  As  the  sun  went  down  the  old 
bulls,  strong  and  gentle,  led  the  way  to  the 
stream.  Before  they  drank  they  lifted  their 
heads  and  lowed,  as  those  who  should  say, 
"We  are  free." 

Only  there  was  one  cow  who  lifted  her 
horned  head  and  sniffed  toward  the  dark  hori 
zon  of  the  east;  thrice  she  lifted  her  head  and 


18    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

lowed  plaintively — calling  her  black  bull-calf 
who  had  been  trapped  by  man.  As  for  the 
others,  they  had  already  forgotten  the  perils 
from  which  they  fled.  In  their  serene  republic 
they  had  nothing  to  do  but  browse  and  love 
and  sleep.  Forgetting  man  they  recovered 
their  old-time  confidence,  and  feared  neither 
the  night-wind  nor  the  little  moon  sailing  over 
head. 

n 

VAH'S  camp  was  near  the  brook  in  the  little 
valley,  between  steep  hills.  The  huts  were 
of  wattled  reeds  and  clay,  and  on  three  sides 
— for  one  side  gave  on  the  water — was  a  stiff 
fence  of  tree-stems.  Vah  came  home  angry 
this  night,  for  he  had  failed  to  kill.  He  had 
cast  his  pointed  stone — or  perhaps  the  first 
javelin — at  a  running  doe,  and  the  slim  beast, 
though  bleeding  from  the  side,  had  outrun  him. 
Twilight  had  come  and  the  women  and  children 
were  drowsing  when  he  entered  the  stockade. 
He  roused  one  of  them  with  his  foot  and  called 
for  food.  In  a  moment  there  were  a  dozen 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      19 

there  to  do  his  bidding.  An  old  woman 
heaped  twigs  on  the  dying  embers  and  blew 
up  a  fire.  Other  women  brought  him  meat 
and  water.  When  he  had  filled  his  stomach, 
Vah  lay  by  the  fire,  stretching  his  hairy  limbs 
and  yawning.  He  had  not  learned  to  think, 
but  vaguely  he  watched  the  forms  of  the 
women,  flitting  against  the  firelight,  and  got 
a  certain  physical  satisfaction  from  the  pic 
ture.  He  was  quite  at  ease;  he  was  digesting 
his  food;  his  relaxed  muscles  gave  heat  and 
comfort  to  his  body ;  his  eyes  followed  the  busy, 
humble  women  as  they  went  here  and  there; 
what  there  was  of  mind  in  him  spun  round  on 
the  pivot  of  his  own  importance — he  was  Vah, 
of  the  strong  arm,  lord  of  this  wooden  strong 
hold,  master  of  all  the  men  and  women  about 
him.  He  stretched  his  hairy  carcass,  letting 
his  big  muscles  play  over  each  other,  like  a  coil 
of  snakes. 

Marj  passed  against  the  background  of  the 
flickering  fire. 

She  was  a  slim,  brown  girl,  with  quick  eyes 
and  the  swift,  furtive  gestures  of  a  wood  ani- 


20     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

mal.  She  stepped  lightly  and  held  her  head 
high.  Vah.  had  never  noticed  her  among  the 
women.  He  might  not  have  noticed  her  this 
night  had  it  not  been  that  Marj  had — invent 
ing  coquetry — draped  round  her  waist  a  tangle 
of  rabbit  skins.  She  was  so  slight  and  young 
that  Vah's  eyes  would  never  have  rested  on  her 
twice  had  it  not  been  for  this  unusual  orna 
ment.  But  now  he  watched  her  closely.  He 
liked  the  way  she  threw  up  her  head  and  looked 
from  left  to  right,  like  a  squirrel.  He  liked 
the  flash  of  a  smile  that  lit  up  her  face  and 
showed  her  teeth  when  she  stooped  and  played 
with  one  of  the  squirming  children.  As  Vah 
lay  there,  warming  his  stomach  at  the  fire,  it 
came  to  him  that  he  cared  for  nothing  so  much 
as  he  cared  for  that  slim  girl. 

He  had  a  vague  intention  of  calling  to  her; 
but  his  dim  brain  was  slow  to  act,  now  that  the 
torpor  of  food  and  fire  was  on  him.  He  saw 
her  approach  the  stockade.  With  a  little 
curiosity  he  watched  her.  The  girl  peered 
through  the  crevices  of  the  fence.  Nothing. 
She  came  again  toward  the  fire  and  Vah  no* 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      21 

ticed  how  thick  the  red  hair  grew  on  her  head 
— a  tangled  mane  of  red  hair  falling  on  her 
back.  He  was  heavy  with  food  or  he  would 
have  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  her,  as  he 
might  have  picked  up  a  bright  stone  that  glit 
tered  in  his  path. 

Still  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she 
went  toward  the  brook.  Here  there  was  no 
fence,  for  the  swift  stream  was  barrier  enough. 
The  girl  crouched  down  as  one  who  waits. 
She  would  have  been  quite  in  the  shadow  had 
it  not  been  that  the  moon  wheeled  up  into  the 
sky  over  the  hill-top  just  then,  and  made  a 
white  light  about  her.  Her  knees  to  her  chin, 
she  sat  there  looking  across  the  stream.  Per 
haps  certain  thoughts  stirred  in  her;  perhaps 
there  was  only  a  vague  warmth  about  her  heart 
and  in  her  blood-vessels,  as  she  crouched  there, 
looking  for  Ahi.  She  rocked  herself  backward 
and  forward,  making  little  guttural  cries  that 
gradually  shaped  themselves  into  Ahi's  name. 
Ahi — Ahi — Ahi — she  repeated ;  it  was  a  mono 
tone  of  sound  that  may  have  had  no  meaning 
to  her,  and  yet  it  may  be  at  that  moment  she 


22 

invented  love.  It  was  night  now,  and  Ahi, 
who  was  a  son  of  the  night,  should  come. 

"Ahi,  Ahi,"  the  girl  repeated,  and  Vah,  who 
lay  by  the  fire,  understood  and  woke  from  his 
torpor.  He  sat  up  and  a  slow  anger  began 
to  burn  in  him.  (Perhaps,  he  too,  had  in 
vented  love.)  He  looked  at  the  young  girl's 
red  hair  and  the  curve  of  her  young  back.  He 
began  to  understand  why  he  was  master  of 
men.  His  strength  seemed  beautiful  to  him. 
He  stood  up,  giving  play  to  bone  and  muscle. 
Even  the  brain  in  him  seemed  to  waken;  he 
remembered  or  discovered,  that  the  girl's  name 
was  Marj.  He  thought  of  going  to  her.  As 
he  stood  there  she  gave  a  little  cry.  Ahi  came 
up  dripping  from  the  stream.  The  bulk  of  a 
beast,  his  brother  the  black  bull,  came  after 
him,  shaking  the  water  from  its  hide.  And 
Ahi  touched  the  head  of  his  brother,  the  bull, 
as  one  who  says,  "Good  friend,"  before  he 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"Marj,"  he  said. 

"Ahi,"  she  answered. 

They  had  not  many  words ;  they  sat  together 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      23 

digging  their  feet  into  the  same  hole  in  the 
gravel,  touching  each  other's  hands  and  rubbing 
their  cheeks  together.  Sin  and  shame  were 
not  invented  yet  and  so  they  fondled  each  other 
in  the  moonlight.  The  stream  was  chattering 
by  them,  and  Ahi  learned  from  it  a  little  song 
that  he  told  her — as  he  rubbed  against  her  and 
sniffed  the  masses  of  her  red,  tangled  hair. 

Ahi  was  small  and  lean  like  a  fox,  but  hand 
some  in  his  way.  He  had  too  much  brain  to 
be  quiet  with.  He  knew  many  words  and 
strung  them  into  songs.  His  hands  were  five 
fingered  and  wonderfully  adroit.  He  knew 
how  to  grind  the  flint  to  a  point  and  he  it  was 
who  had  bound  it  fast  to  the  end  of  a  rod,  so 
that  he  could  stand  in  a  thicket  and  send  death 
from  afar.  He  had  two  things  besides  his  love 
for  Marj — hate  and  theory;  His  hate  was  for 
Vah.  He  had  felt  the  weight  of  Vah's  hand 
too  often  not  to  hate  him,  and  he  hated  him 
patiently,  persistently,  furtively.  Young  as 
he  was  he  had  lived  long  enough  to  know  that 
time  was  fighting  for  him.  Some  day  Vah's 
strength  would  crumble  and  then  Ahi  would 


have  his  hour.  When  the  hair  falls  from  a 
man  and  his  shoulders  sag  forward  with  age — 
and  that  would  come  to  Vah  some  day — was 
the  time  to  strike  him.  His  theory  was  that 
what  is  done  by  day  is  done  and  over  with, 
but  what's  done  in  the  night  lasts  forever. 
And  so  by  day  he  hid  himself  in  the  forest, 
wandering  aimlessly  with  his  black  brother, 
making  fugitive  little  songs — fierce  rhythmic 
cries  of  love  and  hate — for  Marj  and  the  man 
he  hated.  Daily  he  dreamed  of  killing  Vah  in 
curious  and  cruel  ways.  Nightly  he  swam  the 
little  stream  to  be  near  the  girl  who  made  him 
forget  his  hatred. 

Marj  listened  to  Ahi's  voice ;  she  did  not  un 
derstand  the  meaning  of  the  rhythmic  words 
he  said,  but  there  was  a  bright  look  on  her  face, 
as  though  she  knew;  she  put  one  arm  around 
his  neck  and  leaned  closer  against  him.  Ahi 
ran  his  fingers  through  her  thick  hair;  whis 
pering  words  that  had  as  yet  no  meaning ;  then 
suddenly  he  drew  her  toward  him  and  kissed 
her  on  the  mouth.  Perhaps  he  invented  the 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      25 

kiss.  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  won 
dering  and  a  little  afraid. 

"Marj,"  he  said. 

"Ahi,"  she  answered.  They  had  not  many; 
words. 

Now  Vah  standing  by  the  fire  had  seen  and 
heard;  a  sort  of  anger  stirred  in  him,  and  he 
ran  toward  them  with  a  hoarse  cry.  Ahi 
started  to  his  feet,  and  before  he  could  turn 
Vah  struck  him  and  he  went  down,  his  face 
in  the  gravel.  The  fear  of  Vah  was  on  him 
and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  move.  Then  sud 
denly,  stronger  than  fear,  the  passion  of  hate 
surged  through  him  and  he  struggled  up. 
Vah  faced  him,  showing  his  big  white  teeth 
and  laughing.  The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other;  slowly  Ahi's  eyes  dropped;  he  babbled 
something  and  stepped  back  a  little.  Vah 
struck  the  crouching  girl  on  the  shoulder. 

"Come,"  he  said. 

She  got  to  her  feet  whimpering. 

"Come,"  he  said  again  and  he  took  her  by  the 
arm;  and  as  he  led  her  toward  the  hut  she 


26     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

cried,    "Ahi,    Ahi,"    until    the    words    were 
strangled  in  sobs. 

Ahi  did  not  move.  Blood  was  dripping 
from  his  face,  for  Vah  had  struck  hard,  and  he 
tried  to  staunch  it  with  his  hands.  Always  he 
kept  babbling  meaningless  words.  He  felt 
the  heart  in  him  burn  for  a  moment  and  then 
go  cold  with  fear.  He  tried  to  force  himself 
to  call  out  her  name,  but  even  that  he  dared 
not  do.  Fear  was  on  him — the  fear  of  Vah 
and  the  fear  of  men;  the  fear  of  the  lighted 
fire  and  the  clustered  huts;  and  where  fear  is 
love  seems  but  a  little  thing.  Fear  and  hate 
are  twins.  And  through  Ahi's  veins — as  he 
stood  there  wiping  his  blood-dabbled  face- 
fear  and  hate  ran  swift  and  dark.  He  did 
not  move. 

From  Vah's  hut  a  cry  came  to  him,  "Ahi! 
Ahi!"  that  cry  again  and  again.  He  tried  to 
force  himself  toward  the  hut,  but  the  will  in 
him  was  sick  with  fear.  With  a  groan  he 
wrenched  himself  away  and  ran  toward  the 
stream.  Beyond  was  the  forest,  and  the  night 
and  the  safety  of  the  dark.  He  swam  swiftly, 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      27 

dipping  his  hot  and  bloody  face  in  the  water, 
and  side  by  side  with  him  as  he  swam,  went 
his  black  brother,  the  bull. 

Now  this  was  the  flight  of  Ahi,  the  maker 
of  songs,  and  that  night  he  invented  shame. 

Ill 

WEEK  after  week  Ahi  watched  the  camp 
from  afar.  He  saw  Vah  go  to  the  hunt  when 
dawn  came  up;  he  saw  Marj  passing,  patient 
and  dull,  from  the  hut  to  the  water,  or  to  the 
fire;  he  saw  them  both  from  his  coign  in  a 
tree-top  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream.  The 
men  of  the  camp  were  busy  these  days.  Ahi 
saw  them  driving  in  cattle.  One  day  it  was 
a  wounded  heifer,  with  a  foreleg  broken  and 
hanging;  the  next  day  three  calves  and  after 
that  a  little  herd  of  heavy  or  wounded  cows. 
Ahi  spoke  of  these  things  to  his  brother  the 
black  bull,  but  the  black  bull  had  no  words  of 
that  language.  When  he  heard  Ahi's  voice 
he  could  but  look  up  at  him  with  great,  tender 
eyes;  eyes  sweet  and  strong  as  those  of  a 
woman  who  loves  and  is  not  afraid  of  love. 


28    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

And  so  Ahi  was  alone.  And  being  alone  he 
invented  thought.  Day  after  day  he  lay  out 
in  the  sunlight,  brooding.  Sometimes  Marj 
would  haunt  him.  As  though  she  had  been 
beside  him,  he  could  see  her  dark  little  face, 
her  tawny  shoulders  and  the  mass  of  red,  sun- 
stained  hair  that  crowned  her  head.  He  could 
remember  her  kiss.  Gradually  it  became  a 
habit  to  remember  things.  He  could  call  back 
the  pain  of  the  blow  when  Vah  struck  him. 
He  could  evoke  Vah's  great  sneering  mouth, 
full  of  white  teeth,  laughing  at  him.  So  he 
lay  out  in  the  sunlight  and  fed  his  hate.  The 
habit  of  remembering  things  carried  him  far 
ther.  He  recalled  the  days  when  Vah  had 
built  the  stockade.  Aye,  that  was  long  ago, 
before  he  had  captured  his  brother,  the  black' 
bull.  In  those  days  the  men  feared  the  ani 
mals.  They  housed  themselves  in  for  fear  of 
the  great  nomadic  herds.  Ahi  remembered  all 
this,  for  it  was  part  of  his  youth.  Then  the 
herds  had  migrated  beyond  the  rim  of  the  hills. 
The  men  behind  their  barriers  of  wood  had 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      29 

grown  bolder.  They  had  taken  up  the  chase 
again.  Ahi  kept  the  tally  of  the  cattle. 
Vah's  men  drove  home  the  wounded,  dragging 
the  dead.  He  heard  the  shouts  and  noise  of 
the  feasting  at  night,  when  the  huge  fires  were 
built.  He  wondered  if  Marj  were  there  and, 
when  he  thought  of  her,  her  voice  went  wail 
ing  through  his  brain  and  he  would  waken  to 
a  new  hatred  of  Vah.  And,  "I  will  kill  Vah," 
he  would  say  to  himself  and  his  black  brother. 

"We  will  kill  Vah,"  he  repeated. 

His  brother,  the  black  bull,  looked  at  him 
questioningly,  for  he  did  not  understand  the 
menace  in  Ahi's  voice. 

Then  Ahi  laid  his  arm  over  the  neck  of  his 
black  brother  and  pointed  toward  the  stock 
ade,  and  he  said : 

"Do  you  hear?  Do  you  hear  the  noise  and 
the  cries?  These  are  your  friends  calling  to 
you.  These  are  the  cattle  of  your  race.  They 
are  calling  to  you.  They  are  wounded. 
Blood  is  running  from  them.  They  are  to  be 
killed  and  roasted  on  the  fire.  Do  you  hear 


30     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

them  call  to  you?  My  race,  the  race  of  men, 
torture  and  kill  them;  oh,  my  brother,  hear 
them  call  to  you!" 

Faint  but  ceaseless  came  to  them  the  sound 
of  the  captured  cattle  bellowing  with  pain  and 
fear.  Ahi's  black  brother,  the  bull,  pawed  the 
earth  feverishly ;  then  he  rubbed  his  black  muz 
zle  against  Ahi's  cheeks,  as  one  who  would  say : 
"You  are  my  race  and  my  kin,  and  since  you 
are  man,  men  cannot  be  bad." 

"Listen,  listen,"  cried  Ahi. 

Always  the  bellowing  of  the  tortured  ani 
mals  came  to  them  on  the  wind,  but  what  Ahi 
heard  was  a  wailing  of  a  small  voice — a  girl's 
voice  calling  to  him  when  he  dared  not  answer 
it. 

"My  brother,"  he  said,  "you  are  strong- 
strong.     Kill  Vah  for  me.     Kill  him." 

The  black  bull,  his  brother,  gazed  at  him 
softly,  and  in  his  eyes  was  the  look  of  one  who 
loves  mankind.  Ahi  read  the  meaning  in  his 
brother's  eyes,  and  sat  himself  down  under  a 
tree  and  thought.  Three  thoughts  spun 
around  in  his  brain:  The  kiss  of  Marj  and 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      31 

her  hair,  the  killing  of  Vah  and,  lastly,  his 
brother,  the  black  bull. 

Suddenly  all  these  thoughts  became  one. 
Under  his  hand  he  found  one  of  the  flints  he 
had  sharpened  and  bound  with  green  withes 
to  a  stick.  He  poised  the  weapon  until  it  set 
tled  well  in  the  grip  of  his  hand.  Then  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  thrust  the  flint  into  his 
brother's  side.  The  black  bull  bellowed  with 
pain  and  lowered  his  head,  his  long  horns  glanc 
ing  right  and  left.  Then  he  saw  AM,  the 
bloody  spear  in  his  hand.  In  the  black 
brother's  brain  there  was  only  wonder.  Ahi, 
shouting  strange  words,  drove  the  spear  into 
the  bull's  shoulder.  So  deep  the  hurt  was  that 
the  bull  went  to  his  knees.  With  an  effort  he 
dragged  himself  up  and  looked  at  his  white 
brother,  the  man.  There  was  neither  fear  nor 
anger  in  his  eye,  but  they  were  filmy  with  pain. 
He  took  a  step  toward  Ahi,  lifting  his  black 
muzzle  in  the  old  familiar  way.  His  brother, 
the  man,  struck  him  again  with  the  flint. 
With  a  cry  that  was  half  human,  the  black  bull 
fled  away  through  the  forest  and  Ahi,  watching 


32     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

him,  saw  him  breast  the  hill  and  vanish  into  the 
horizon. 

Now  here  there  were  two  things  invented. 
The  black  brother,  the  bull,  knew  only  that  Ahi 
had  invented  ingratitude,  but  his  white 
brother,  the  man,  knew  that  vengeance  was 
born. 

IV 

IN  the  great  valley  beyond  the  rim  of  the 
hills  the  cattle  slept,  deep  in  the  dewy  grass. 
Now  and  then  an  old  bull  raised  his  head, 
stared  at  the  moon,  browsed  a  moment  and 
slept  again.  Sometimes  a  young  calf  called 
plaintively,  wakened  from  sleep  by  hunger;  it 
would  nose  for  a  while  and  sleep.  In  this  se 
rene  republic  it  was  very  quiet.  The  stars 
wheeled  slowly  out  of  sight;  dawn  came.  As 
the  cattle  stretched  themselves  and  rose  they 
faced  the  east.  Now  over  the  rim  of  the  hills 
they  saw  a  bull  come  running.  Even  as  he 
approached  he  bellowed  to  them,  and  his  cries 
were  fierce  and  sharp.  Blood  ran  from  his 
sides  and  he  was  foul  with  sweat  and  dirt.  He 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      33 

was  not  of  their  republic;  not  even  the  oldest 
bull  knew  him.  Cautiously  the  bulls  went  for 
ward  to  meet  him,  but  he  pressed  on  into  the 
thick  of  the  herd.  For  a  space  he  gasped  for 
breath,  while  his  kinsmen  looked  fearfully  at 
his  gaping  wounds,  and  then  he  spoke  to  them 
in  their  own  tongue  and  he  said : 

"Up,  my  brothers,  up !  Hear  me,  for  I  am 
your  brother.  I  have  crossed  the  mountains 
and  streams  to  bring  you  warning.  I  have 
run  for  hours.  Everywhere  on  my  way  I  saw 
brothers  of  ours  wounded  as  I  am,  dying. 
Man  is  coming — man.  He  who  kills  is  com 
ing.  The  white  brother  who  speaks  soft  and 
kills." 

The  black  bull  shook  the  bloody  froth  out  of 
his  mouth;  his  torn  sides  swung  in  and  out  as 
he  gasped  for  breath.  There  was  an  old  bull, 
very  old,  who  remembered  the  years  gone  by 
when  they  had  fled  from  man. 

"Let  us  move  on,"  he  said,  "to  the  new  wil 
derness  beyond." 

"And  man  will  follow,"  cried  the  black  bull, 
in  their  speech;  "he  who  strokes  with  one  hand 


34     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

and  kills  with  the  other.  No ;  turn  back.  One 
and  all,  let  us  rush  upon  him  and  trample  him 
and  his  sharp  stones  and  his  fire  under  our  feet ; 
and  rip  his  belly  with  our  horns.  What  have 
we  to  fear  ?  Die — if  we  must  die  it  is  better  to 
die  killing." 

The  black  bull  threw  back  his  great  head, 
superb,  fierce,  calm  as  one  who  leads.  The 
young  bulls  rallied  to  him;  the  old  bulls  yielded 
to  him;  the  cows  crowded  close  to  him;  their 
eyes  lit  with  admiration. 

"Forward." 

From  all  sides  the  cattle  pressed  in;  fierce 
and  high  rose  the  bellowing — thousands  upon 
many  thousands  of  voices;  and  the  march  be 
gan.  Gradually  the  captains  marshaled  them. 
They  went  in  order  as  troops  march  to  a  holy 
war.  The  great  republic  swept  on.  It  was 
the  first  crusade  of  the  serene  republic. 

"Forward." 

The  black  bull  was  in  the  lead ;  he  tossed  his 
great  head  as  he  ran ;  his  blood-shot  eyes  looked 
straight  in  front  of  him — forward!  A  cluster 
of  huts,  something  that  might  have  been  a  vil- 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      35 

lage,  rose  before  them  on  the  hill-side ;  the  flood 
of  furious  hoofs  swept  down  on  it ;  a  few  cries 
and  the  flood  passed;  then  silence.  There  was 
blood  on  the  horns  of  the  leaders  and  their 
hoofs  smoked  with  blood;  the  army  swept  on. 
The  sun  had  set  when  they  breasted  the  last 
hill.  The  black  bull  was  the  first  to  top  the 
ridge,  but  his  bellow  of  triumph  was  drowned 
in  the  noise  of  the  myriad  hoofs.  Below  them 
in  the  valley  was  a  little  stream  and  beside  it 
was  Vah's  village.  The  flood  of  flashing  horns 
and  ringing  hoofs  poured  down  upon  it. 

V 

VAH  lay  by  the  fire  torpid  with  food.  The 
girl  Mar  j  sat  by  him ;  her  knees  were  drawn  up 
to  her  chin  and  she  stared  at  the  fire,  brooding. 
A  little  wind  was  blowing  and  the  sparks  ed 
died  up,  brief  and  quick,  to  spin  for  a  moment 
and  then  die  against  the  blue  of  the  night. 
She  noticed  that  the  sparks  were  curiously  like 
stars;  she  wondered  for  whom  the  fire  burned 
over  head — if  some  one  lay  and  warmed  him 
self  among  the  stars  even  as  Vah  lay  here 


36     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

among  the  embers.  And  though  she  knew  it 
not,  perhaps  she  had  discovered  the  great 
truth.  She  looked  down  at  her  man.  He  lay 
sprawled  out  broad  on  his  belly,  his  face  in  the 
sod.  His  huge  ribs  rose  and  fell  with  his 
breathing.  Marj  touched  him  with  a  sense 
of  content.  It  was  something  that  she  was  his, 
for  he  was  the  strongest  of  his  race.  But  al 
ways  the  sparks  from  the  wood-fire  flickered  in 
her  eyes,  and  in  her  mind  there  flickered  brief 
and  shining  thoughts  of  Ahi.  She  remem 
bered  a  song  he  made — a  little  rhythm  of 
fierce  and  loving  sounds — and  crooned  it  to 
herself.  Ahi  and  Marj,  it  was  the  chant  of  his 
name  and  hers. 

The  night  was  full  of  strange  sounds. 
Though  the  wind  was  small  and  feeble,  there 
was  a  bluster  of  storm  in  the  air.  Vah  raised 
himself  on  his  elbows,  his  eyes  bright  with  ap 
prehension. 

"Get  up,"  said  Vah,  and  he  touched  her  with 
his  foot. 

She  rose  slowly,  but  even  as  her  legs  straight 
ened  under  her,  an  arm  was  swept  around  her 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      37 

waist  and  Ahi's  voice  was  in  her  ears  crying: 
"Come,  come!"  He  was  wet  from  the  stream 
he  had  swum.  His  voice  came  faint  and 
strangled  to  his  lips.  He  babbled.  "Come, 
come,"  and  "Marj,  Marj  1"  for  his  fear  and  his 
love  were  battling  to  get  control  of  his  will. 
Savage  in  his  cowardice,  sobbing,  furious, 
whimpering,  he  dragged  her  toward  the  safety 
of  the  running  water.  Vah  turned  and  looked 
at  them.  A  hoarse  snarl  of  laughter  came 
from  his  mouth.  He  shouted  one  word  of  con 
tempt  and  rushed  toward  the  stockade — 
toward  the  unknown  horror  sweeping  down 
the  valley.  He  wrenched  at  the  tree-stems 
with  his  huge  hands  and  made  a  passage.  For 
a  moment  he  hesitated,  glancing  back  at  the 
woman  near  the  stream.  His  dull  brain 
rocked  between  two  impulses.  Marj  was 
swifter  of  thought.  She  broke  away  from 
Ahi's  slim  arms  and  ran  to  Vah.  For  an  in 
stant  her  hands  clasped  him  and  she  gave  him 
the  kiss  Ahi  had  taught  her  in  days  gone  by. 
Then  she  passed  him,  running  swiftly  into  the 
twilight  and  tumult  of  the  plain. 


38     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

He  who  followed  and  overtook  her  was  Ahi, 
the  maker  of  songs,  for  Vah  stood  dazed,  the 
taste  of  her  kiss  on  his  mouth.  Out  of  the 
West  the  army  of  wild  herds  poured  down  into 
the  twilight ;  and  it  was  an  army,  and  it  was  an 
ocean,  wave  after  wave,  a  rushing  tide.  The 
noise  of  the  hoofs  was  like  the  noise  of  many 
thunders.  The  sharp  horns  glanced  and  rang 
like  sabers.  Over  all  rose  the  cries,  fierce  and 
exultant,  as  of  those  who  sweep  on  to  venge 
ance. 

Far  ahead,  swifter  than  all  the  others,  raced 
the  black  bull,  all  foam  and  blood,  his  red  eyes 
swollen  in  the  sockets,  his  head  low,  his  bright 
horns  set  for  the  charge.  And  to  him  there 
came  running,  hand  in  hand,  a  slim  girl  and 
Ahi,  his  white  brother.  The  girl's  eyes  shone 
gloriously  and  her  breath  came  quick  and  true, 
but  Ahi  was  screaming  new  words  of  terror, 
though  he  would  not  loose  her  hand. 

"It  is  I,"  cried  Ahi.  "It  is  I,  my  brother, 
the  bull !  It  is  I,  your  man-brother,  Ahi,  your 
brother!" 

And  as  though  he  had  heard,  the  black  bull 


PASSING  OF  THE  HERDS      39 

swerved  aside  a  little,  but  as  he  passed  he  thrust 
at  the  girl  with  his  horns.  And  the  horn 
ripped  open  the  flesh  of  her  side  and  snapped 
her  rib-bones  as  though  they  had  been  dried 
twigs.  The  black  bull  did  not  pause.  With  a 
toss  of  his  head  he  threw  her  twenty  feet  away, 
a  dead  thing,  crumpled  on  the  turf.  And  Alii, 
though  he  ran,  did  not  reach  her,  for  the 
avalanche  of  the  wild  herds  was  upon  him,  and 
the  life  and  the  love  and  the  fear  were  ground 
out  of  him  under  the  rushing  hoofs. 

The  army  swept  on.  The  wooden  barriers 
fell  and  vanished,  and  somewhere  in  the  ruin 
Vah  died,  the  taste  of  a  kiss  upon  his  lips.  The 
army  passed;  where  once  the  village  had  been 
there  was  only  trampled  clay  and  blood,  and 
silence ;  overhead  the  stars  flickered  like  sparks 
from  a  fire. 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA 


O  Mary  of  Magdala,  the  alien  merchants  came, 
Across  the  shining,  somber  sands,  that  stained  their 

feet  like  flame. 
To  lay  down  at  your  portals  their  gifts  of  gold  and 

nard, 
Of  quaintly  chiseled  ivory  and  diamonds,  white  and 

hard; 
You  loved  them  for  the  journey  they  made  through 

fearful  lands, 
You  loved  them  for  the  peril  of  the  bandits  and  the 

sands ; 
And  you  loved  them  for  the  spices,  the  gems,  the  bars 

of  gold — 
(So  soft  you  looped  them  round  your  wrist!) — these 

wayfarers  of  old. 
But  I?     I  have  come  further  than  your  old  lovers 

dared, 

0  Mary   of   Magdala !     With   sword-arm    red    and 

bared. 

1  have  fought  my  way  back  grimly  through  all  the 

serried  years — 

(0  Mary  of  Magdala,  the  peril  of  the  years !) 
To  bring  to  you  the  guerdon  of  my  verses  and  my 

tears. 


II 

THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA 

I 

IT  was  a  strange  story;  it  happened  this 
way: 

There  was  an  old  man,  the  head  of  a  rough 
tribe,  living  in  the  Gaulinitish  hills.  Because 
he  was  a  strong  chieftain,  they  called  him 
"Abba,"  which  is  "father"  in  the  language 
spoken  in  those  parts.  This  old  man  had  a 
son,  who  came  upon  earth  in  evil  days.  Sad 
days  they  were,  for  the  Romans  had  pushed 
their  power  across  the  "Great  Sea"  into  the 
land  of  these  Jews.  Now,  as  the  son  of  the  old 
chief  grew  to  years,  there  grew  with  him,  day 
by  day,  a  hatred  of  these  Romans  who  had 
come  into  his  land.  He  was  a  lusty  lad.  Be 
fore  he  was  eighteen  there  was  hair  on  his 
breast,  and  the  hair  clustered  thick  round  his 
square  chin.  So  the  men  in  the  Gaulinitish 

43 


44     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

hills  had  faith  in  him,  trusting  his  strength. 
They  called  him  Bar- Abbas,  because  he  was 
the  son  of  his  father.  But  what  could  he  do 
for  them,  in  these  days  when  the  Roman  camp 
ran  northward  as  far  as  Caesarea  Philippi? 
The  boy  was  but  a  straw  in  the  wind. 

The  Lord  Sirus,  who  kept  the  stronghold  of 
Magdala,  which,  with  all  its  towers,  looked 
eastward  over  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  took  the 
young  lad  into  his  service  and  set  him  to  tend 
the  goats  and  sheep.  For  a  little  while  the  lad 
bent  himself  to  this  service  and  was  meek  and 
calm.  He  saw  the  children  of  the  house  pass 
— the  little  pampered  children  of  Lord  Sirus, 
who  was  the  Roman  deputy  for  that  province. 
Always  the  boy's  heart  was  sour  as  acid,  with 
his  hatred  for  these  Roman  masters  who  were 
not  of  his  race.  There  on  the  hills  at  night, 
when  he  watched  his  flocks,  he  would  build  a 
fire  and  lie  by  it — studying  the  flickering 
sparks  and  wondering  whether  or  not  a  venge 
ful  God  lay  sleeping  among  the  embers  of  the 
stars  that  shone  in  the  sky  overhead. 

One  day  a  little  girl  came  down  into  the 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      45 

shadow  of  the  plane  trees,  where  he  watched. 

She  was  not  very  pretty,  she  was  too  yellow, 
sunburned  and  thin;  the  hair  on  her  head  had 
too  much  red  in  it.  In  an  odd  way  she  sucked 
her  thumb  and  smiled  at  him.  Now  the  son  of 
Abba,  who  was  called  Bar-Abbas,  looked  at 
her,  and  he  felt  the  heart  in  him  rise  and  flutter 
as  a  bird  that  is  ready  to  fly.  She  came 
straight  to  him  on  her  little  bare  feet  that  were 
the  color  of  pale  gold;  she  looked  in  his  face 
and  laughed,  and  said: 

"Tell  me  your  name!" 

Bar- Abbas  gave  her  his  name. 

The  little  girl  went  close  to  him  and  stroked 
the  soft,  thick  beard  on  his  chin. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said. 

This  half -savage  lad,  weary  of  labor  and 
irked  with  strange  thoughts  of  the  springtide, 
knew  not  what  to  say ;  he  reached  for  her  little 
brown  fist,  but  she  said  "Don't!"  and  drew  it 
away. 

"See!"  she  said,  opening  her  hand.  "I've  a 
baby  lizard — I  got  it  from  the  wall." 

She  did  not  know,  nor  did  the  lad  know,  that 


46     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

this  was  the  symbol  of  her  role  in  life — her  mis 
sion  of  unconscious  cruelty  and  unwitting  de 
struction;  he  swept  his  arm  around  her  and 
kissed  her,  crushing  her  lips. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said. 

"And  I  love  you,"  said  the  lad;  with  an  im 
pulse  he  could  not  control  he  laid  his  head  in 
the  dust  and  kissed  her  little  naked  feet. 

The  child  laughed ;  she  flirted  away  her  foot 
with  a  cruel  and  futile  gesture. 

"Will  you  always  love  me?"  she  asked. 

"Until  God  takes  my  life  away,"  he  said;  the 
poor  fool  was  kneeling  before  her  and  she, 
bright  and  ironic,  studied  his  excited  face. 
Such  a  child  she  was,  too — a  mere  child,  too 
yellow  and  sunburned  and  thin,  with  the  red 
hair  round  her  face. 

"Then  I'll  kiss  you,"  said  the  little  girl. 

She  went  close  to  him  and  put  her  hands  in 
his  hair  and  pulled  his  face  up  to  her  face ;  then, 
still  laughing,  she  set  her  young  full  lips  to  his 
and  kissed  him.  And  this  kiss,  did  we  but 
know  it,  was  invented  that  one  man  might  die 
and  that  those  who  believe  in  Him  might  live. 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      47 

II 

IT  was  in  the  old  tower  of  Magdala.  A  bent 
serving-man  went  up  the  twisted  stairs  to  the 
chamber,  which  had  been  the  room  of  state. 
As  he  went  he  fought  against  darkness  and 
dust — gray  dust  out  of  the  old  walls  and  dark 
ness  that  dripped  from  the  decayed  timbers. 
He  pushed  open  the  wooden  windows  of  the 
great  chamber.  The  gold  sunlight  of  the  aft 
ernoon  streamed  in.  The  woven  curtains  and 
Tyrian  tapestry  showed  gray  against  it,  so 
bright  the  sun  shone.  The  old  man  looked 
from  the  window;  he  saw  the  village  and  the 
sea ;  he  shrugged  his  bent  shoulders  and  threw 
out  his  hands  in  a  racial  gesture. 

"Wife,"  he  called,  "wife— wife!" 

An  old  woman  came  up ;  she  was  timid  and 
faint;  there  was  hardly  a  sign  of  life  in  her, 
save  the  dark  Semitic  eyes  that  shone  with  un- 
quenched  hope. 

"See  to  the  couches,"  said  the  man  shortly; 
he  pointed  to  the  silken  mattresses  varnished 
with  dust. 


48    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"It  cannot  be  true,  Hakkoz,"  said  the  old 
woman,  timidly,  "that  she  is  here,  my  husband 
— it  cannot  be  true." 

As  she  spoke  one  could  see  that  the  great 
hope  was  urgent  as  flame  in  her  poor,  old,  faded 
body. 

"It  cannot  be  true,  Hakkoz,"  said  she,  "that 
she  is  really  here — the  little  girl  I  fed  at  my 
breast — that  she  has  come  home  again!" 

The  old  man  grumbled,  shaking  the  dust 
from  the  thick  curtains  over  the  bed. 

"Aye,  she's  here — but  what  brought  her?"  he 
asked  harshly. 

"It  is  home  for  her,"  said  the  old  woman;  she 
was  wrinkled  and  very  yellow,  as  are  all  the 
women  of  her  race  when  age  comes  upon  them. 

"Her  home?  Aye!  Now  God  be  thanked 
her  father,  the  Lord  Sirus,  is  dead,"  said  the 
old  man,  "our  God  be  thanked  he  is  five  years 
in  his  grave.  The  old  good  lord;  he  never 
knew  what  she  made  of  her  life!  The  brave 
old  lord !  He  loved  her  best  of  all.  'Twas  the 
best  part  of  his  fortune  he  left  her." 

"This  old  castle — the  ruined  house  and  the 


old  tower,"  his  wife  said,  "nay,  you  forget  the 
house  in  Jerusalem  and  all  that  went  to  her 
brother!  Aye,  and  the  fat  estate  in  Bethany 
that  went  to  her  sister,  Lady  Martha.  The 
poor  child  had  but  this  old  tower  by  the  sea." 

"And  the  lands,  woman,  the  farms,"  said  old 
Hakkoz,  sharply,  "the  broad  fields  that  run 
north  for  leagues.  What  more  could  a  man 
do  for  the  daughter  he  loved  ?  The  tower  and 
the  fields  he  gave  her!  What  more  could  he 
give  ?  And  she  left  it  all.  You  know  her  life 
in  Egypt,  old  woman,  and  what  she  did  in 
Rome;  and  what  she  is  in  Jerusalem.  Why 
comes  she  here?  The  tower  of  Magdala  is  no 
home  for  her  now.  The  red  woman !"  cried  old 
Hakkoz,  "the  red  woman — she  whose  ankles 
tinkle  as  she  walks,  bah !"  and  he  spat  upon  the 
floor. 

"I  held  her  in  my  lap,"  said  his  old  wife, 
and  always  she  was  busy  with  the  dusty  silken 
covers  of  the  couch,  "in  my  lap  she  lay — no  big 
ger  than  that — kicking  and  laughing  and  hun 
gry  for  my  breast.  Lord  Sirus  called  her  his 
hungry  girl.  'Twas  no  sin  to  love  her  then. 


50     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

And    now,"    the    old    woman    added,    "there 
is  none  has  a  kind  word  for  her — not  even 

you." 

"Kind  words,"  said  the  old  husband;  he 
straightened  his  bent  back  and  showed  her  his 
yellow  face  and  his  yellow  teeth,  "kind  words — 
she's  heard  too  many  of  them,  the  Lady  of 
Magdala.  Too  many  kind  words  and  too 
many  kisses." 

Again  he  spat  on  the  floor. 

"God  will  have  his  vengeance  on  her  for  the 
kind  words  and  the  kisses — the  red  woman! 
And  she  has  dared  to  come  back  to  the  old 
house,  her  father's  house,"  said  the  old  serving- 
man.  "That  I  should  have  lived  to  see  it." 

"See  what,  old  Hakkoz?" 

It  was  a  little  voice  keyed  to  strange  tones ; 
scarlet  and  silver;  there  was  laughter  in  it — 
and  love.  And  the  woman  who  spoke  stood  in 
the  doorway,  swaying  slightly  from  side  to  side 
— indolent,  smiling,  slim.  The  hair  on  her 
head  was  red;  it  was  bound  up  with  silver 
bands.  She  wore  the  Roman  dress,  falling 
white  to  her  ankles.  There  was  a  touch  of  yel- 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      51 

low  in  her  skin,  as  though  in  far-off  days  the 
sun  had  burned  it.  Her  lips  were  full  and  red. 
Her  eyes  had  a  curious  slant  downward — un 
der  the  drooping  lids  one  could  not  see  whether 
they  were  red  or  brown.  Always,  too,  she 
moved  her  slim  fingers  across  her  hair  and  eyes ; 
it  was  a  habit  of  hers ;  perhaps  in  some  other  life 
she  had  seen  a  squirrel  play  thus  with  hair  and 
brow.  There  were  jewels  round  her  throat 
and  a  jeweled  branch  of  them  twisted  down 
between  her  stately  breasts.  Her  fingers  were 
ringed  to  the  second  joint;  and  between  the 
thumbs  of  her  feet  thin  bands  of  silver  ran  up 
and  circled  her  slight  ankles.  Indeed,  the  slim 
lady  of  Magdala  was  gilded  like  the  girls  who 
wore  the  saffron  robe  in  Rome  where  she  had 
lived. 

"Lived  to  see  what,  old  Hakkoz?"  she  said 
again,  as  she  entered  the  room.  "Do  you  mean 
your  mistress?  Puh!  What  an  odor  of  dead 
things  there  is  here.  Burn  some  perfumes, 
nurse,  'tis  very  foul.  One  would  think  some 
one  had  died  here." 

"You  were  born  here,"  the  old  nurse  said. 


52    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

'Twas  here  Lord  Sirus,  your  father,  died," 
said  Hakkoz;  he  lifted  his  face  and  looked  at 
her. 

The  Lady  of  Magdala  did  not  answer  them ; 
she  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out;  be 
low  her  lay  the  little  village,  the  fishing  huts, 
the  narrow  street  where  the  naked  children 
played  and  quarreled;  beyond  was  the  sea — 
drowsing  in  the  sunlight  like  an  indolent  cat; 
and  then  to  the  north  she  saw  the  meadow,  the 
grove  of  plane  trees,  the  lift  of  the  hills,  white 
with  browsing  flocks  of  sheep. 

The  youth  that  had  once  been  hers  came  back 
to  her  bit  by  bit.  She  had  played  there  be 
tween  sea  and  sand.  She  had  known  the  se 
crets  of  the  grove;  the  green  plane  trees  had 
whispered  to  her.  She  had  wandered  with 
sheep  and  shepherds.  The  memory  of  these 
things  came  to  her  out  of  the  long  ago.  She 
was  a  very  small  girl  then,  for  this  was  before 
her  father  died.  Indeed  it  was  very  long  ago. 
So  many  things  had  happened  since.  It  all 
came  back  to  her. 

Especially    she    remembered    the    bearded 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      53 

shepherd — a  poor  lad — whom  she  loved  for  a 
little  while.  They  might  have  been  happy  to 
gether  for  they  had  love.  But  the  old  Lord 
Sirus  patted  her  cheeks  and  laughed  at  her, 
and  her  great  sister,  the  Lady  Martha,  in 
structed  her  in  life,  telling  her  that  a  Lady  of 
Magdala  may  not  marry  a  rebel  out  of  the 
fields;  so  she  had  yielded,  but  love  had  not. 
The  old  Lord  Sirus  died,  and  even  before  she 
quarreled  with  her  sister  Martha — for  her  poor 
epileptic  brother  did  not  count  in  these  family 
affairs — she  was  impatient  for  the  new,  far 
life  and  the  joy  of  alien  songs.  They  would 
not  give  her  the  shepherd  lad  she  loved!  No, 
but  there  passed  a  Syrian  merchant  going 
down  to  Egypt,  and  she  went  with  him,  giving 
him  the  guerdon  of  her  fifteen  years  and  her 
unreaped  kisses.  The  Syrian  merchant! 
Then  there  was  the  young  Greek  poet,  who  car 
ried  her  from  Alexandria  to  Rome,  singing  the 
while  his  maddening,  alien  strophes;  then  the 
great  Roman  lord,  grandson  of  the  Pontius 
who  was  the  sea-farer,  son  of  him  who  won  the 
name  of  Pilatus  by  casting  the  javelin,  who 


54     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

carried  her  back  to  Palestine  among  his  train 
of  girls. 

He  was  a  curious,  subtle  man,  Pilatus;  he 
was  gentle  and  had  a  singing  voice.  Did  she 
love  him?  Had  she  loved  the  Syrian  mer 
chant?  Had  she  loved  the  Greek  poet  who 
kissed  her  knees  and  chanted  to  her  in  the 
moonlight,  as  they  journeyed  by  boat  from 
Alexandria  ? 

She  did  not  know. 

Looking  out  upon  the  sea  that  crooned  be 
neath  her  old  tower,  the  Lady  of  Magdala 
asked  herself  if  she  had  loved  these  men ;  a  red 
anger  stained  her  face  and  crept  up  into  her 
hair,  for  she  did  not  know  whether  she  had 
loved  them  or  not — and  the  shame  of  it  hurt 
her. 

"If  my  lady  is  served";  it  was  old  Hakkoz 
who  spoke,  and  there  was  a  sneer  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  you  may  go,"  said  the  Lady  of  Mag 
dala,  idly ;  she  was  thinking — as  for  many  days 
she  had  thought — of  a  young  shepherd  who  had 
crushed  his  lips  against  hers,  long  ago  when 
she  was  very  young. 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      55 

"You  may  go,"  she  said,  "but  nurse,  wait. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Old  Hakkoz  went  out  but  before  he  crossed 
the  threshold  he  spat  slyly  upon  the  floor. 

"Oh,  Lady  Mary,"  said  the  old  nurse,  "it  is 
good  you've  come  home." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  Lady  of  Magdala, 
"where  is  the  Son  of  Abba?" 

"Bar-Abbas,"  the  old  nurse  repeated, 
"surely  he  is  with  his  'flocks.' ' 

"Always  the  same?" 

The  old  woman  looked  about  her  fearfully. 

"Xo  one  hears  but  you?"  she  asked. 

The  Lady  of  Magdala  went  close  to  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

"But  you  are  a  Roman  lady  now,"  said  the 
old  nurse,  "and  I  dare  not." 

As  in  the  old  days  the  bright  girl  slipped  her 
arm  around  her  nurse's  withered  neck  and 
whispered  to  her  with  little  kisses  that  broke 
the  words. 

"Am  I  not  my  father's  daughter?"  she  asked 
softly;  "and  your  foster-daughter,  that  cannot 
change?" 


56    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

4 'Bar- Abbas  is  stronger  than  your  father — 
every  one  trusts  him,"  said  the  old  nurse. 
"He  is  gathering  the  Galileans — all  the  men  of 
the  sea  and  the  wild  men  of  the  Gaulinitish  hills 
•. — to  make  war  upon  the  Romans  who  have 
taken  our  city." 

"To  fight  against  Rome!"  cried  the  Lady  of 
Magdala  and  laughed. 

"To  save  Jerusalem,"  said  the  old  Jewish 
woman ;  and  there  was  a  new  light  in  her  eyes. 

Leaning  there  in  the  old  window-space  the 
broad  afternoon  sunlight  fell  full  upon  the 
Lady  of  Magdala ;  it  added  fire  to  her  hair  and 
sparkled  on  her  jewels;  slowly  she  turned  and 
looked  at  the  old  woman  who  had  suckled  her 
when  she  was  but  a  half -blind  lump  of  sore  and 
irksome  flesh.  A  sneer  ran  across  her  face — it 
was  like  a  saber-cut  and  parted  the  lips,  show 
ing  her  white  teeth. 

"Save  Jerusalem!"  she  said,  and  always  the 
sneer  ran  across  her  face.  "You  do  not  know 
my  Lord  Pilatus.  Jerusalem  is  his,  as  I,"  she 
paused  and  caught  her  breath,  "as  I  am  his." 
All  this  was  bitter  and  hard ;  when  it  was  spent 


she  ran  again  to  her  old  nurse  and  kissed  her 
and  cried  brokenly:  "But  where  is  Bar- 
Abbas  ?  I  have  come  only  to  see  him — I  loved 
him  first — I  love  him  now.  Oh,  nurse,  nurse, 
my  mother,  I  have  loved  him  always.  Where 
is  Bar- Abbas,  my  shepherd  boy — he  who  gave 
me  the  kiss.  Send  for  him." 

These  words  the  Lady  of  Magdala  said  very 
swiftly  and  between  the  words  she  kissed  the 
wrinkled  face  and  neck  of  her  old  nurse ;  more 
over,  as  she  spoke  the  nerves  and  muscles  in  her 
twittered  so  that  had  Pilatus,  her  lover,  been 
there  he  would  have  sent  speedily  for  his  best 
physician,  the  slave,  Magnus  whom  he  had 
bought  out  of  Gaul. 

"Send  for  Bar- Abbas,"  whispered  the  Lady 
of  Magdala;  "it  was  for  him  I  came — and  he 
only  can  save  me." 

"Hush,"  said  the  old  nurse,  for  she  had  got 
the  girl  in  her  arms  and  was  rocking  her  to  and 
fro.  "Save  you  from  what,  my  baby?" 

"From  Pilatus — from  myself,"  the  Lady  of 
Magdala  said  softly  and  there  was  fear  in  her 
voice.  "Oh,  send  for  him," 


58     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"Bar- Abbas?"  the  old  woman  said  sooth 
ingly.  "I  need  not  send  for  him.  Day  and 
night  he  has  watched  at  the  gate,  since  we  knew 
you  were  coming  home." 

"Here?"  cried  the  Lady  of  Magdala;  she 
threw  her  head  back  with  a  proud  little  ges 
ture;  her  robe  swayed  sidewise  and  all  the 
jewels  on  her  tinkled  and  glittered;  then  she 
said  again:  "Here?" 

She  might  have  known  he  would  be  there. 
While  the  old  serving-woman  went  to  bring 
him  in  she  made  comely  her  hair  and  straight 
ened  the  folds  of  her  white  robe. 

Ill 

THE  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  tower 
of  Magdala.  It  came  slantingly  into  the  win 
dow  of  the  room  where  the  Lady  Mary  stood 
and  made  a  mere  yellow  flicker  against  the 
dusty  wall.  Westward  the  evening  light  lay 
broad  upon  the  sea.  Where  the  road  went 
northward  to  split  among  the  plane  trees  and 
lose  itself  in  the  folds  of  the  hills  there  were 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      59 

great  patches  of  light  and  shade  curiously  dis 
tinct. 

The  Lady  of  Magdala,  waiting,  heard  the 
click  of  sandals  on  the  stairs  and  the  noise  as 
of  one  who  drops  his  sandals  at  the  door. 

She  did  not  turn. 

The  man  who  came  into  the  room  was  black- 
bearded,  and  the  thatch  of  hair  on  his  head  was 
coarse  and  brown-stained  by  the  weather.  He 
wore  the  coat  of  his  race,  girded  at  the  waist  by 
woven  thongs  of  leather.  His  head  and  feet 
were  bare,  but  his  breast  was  covered  with 
coarse  linen  cloth,  fastened  high  up  to  his 
throat.  He  was  just  as  she  had  expected  him 
to  be,  strong,  forceful,  grim.  He  smelled  of 
the  earth  and  the  sea  and  the  Lady  of  Magdala 
felt  neither  fear  nor  repulsion ;  it  was  as  though 
she  had  come  back  to  her  race  and  the  salutary 
life  of  old. 

"You  do  not  welcome  me,"  she  said  with  the 
slow,  mocking  smile  that  men  did  not  resist. 

"I  welcome  you,"  said  the  man. 

"You  have  forgotten,  Bar- Abbas?"  she  asked 
gently. 


60     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Out  of  liis  black  beard  he  growled  a  mean 
ingless  word,  but  always  his  eyes  were  upon 
her. 

"You  kissed  me,"  she  said  with  that  slow, 
strange  smile  of  hers. 

The  man  cleared  his  throat  before  he  spoke. 
With  a  movement  that  was  perhaps  involun 
tary,  he  squared  his  shoulders  and  set  his  bare 
right  heel  hard  on  the  floor. 

"God,"  he  said  and  twice  he  repeated  the 
word;  it  sounded  like  the  groan  of  a  sick  beast. 
Then  he  turned  on  her  and  shouted  a  torrent 
of  words  that  finally  shaped  themselves  into 
this:  "Go  back  to  your  Roman!  What  have 
you  to  do  with  me?  Go  back  to  your  mas 
ter!" 

"My  master!"  the  woman  echoed  angrily, 
for  the  word  stung  her  like  wine  dropped  on  a 
new  wound.  "My  master!" 

"I  know,"  said  Bar- Abbas  with  dull  anger, 
and  as  he  spoke  his  big  head  swayed  to  and  fro 
like  an  angry  bull,  "I  know.  He's  your  mas 
ter  and  mine.  You  are  his  slave  in  one  way 
and  I  am  his  slave  in  another  w&y.  All  we 


who  are  Jews  are  his  slaves.  But  our  day  will 
come — my  day  will  come." 

Bar-Ahbas  tossed  his  big  head  up  again  and 
said,  ''My  day  will  come." 

His  dull  eyes  brightened  as  he  spoke;  he 
made  cruel,  brutal  gestures  with  his  clenched 
and  hairy  hands.  There  was  strength  in  him 
and  impulse. 

From  head  to  foot  the  Lady  of  Magdala  was 
but  a  wavering  line  as  she  threw  herself  against 
him. 

"How  I  love  you,"  ghe  whispered;  "how  I 
love  you!" 

Bar- Abbas  held  her  off  at  arm's  length. 

"And  I  love  you,"  he  said  swiftly.  Some 
thing  like  a  sob  came  through  the  man's  set 
teeth;  he  got  himself  together  and  added 
quietly : 

"Three  things  I  love — my  father's  God,  my 
country  and  you."  Urgent  and  bright  the 
Lady  of  Magdala  clung  close  to  him. 

"But  for  my  life  I  would  not  touch  your 
lips,"  he  said;  and  he  pushed  her  roughly  from 
him. 


62     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

It  was  not  thus  that  men  had  treated  her ;  a 
sudden  anger  flamed  in  her.  There  was  pas 
sion  in  her  eyes  and  her  white  teeth  came  to 
gether. 

"Bar- Abbas,"  she  said  softly,  "men  have 
died  for  less  than  that — nailed  up  to  a  cross 
like  slaves  to  die." 

Bar- Abbas  swept  his  hands  through  the  air, 
making  the  gesture  of  his  race. 

"It  is  better  to  die  than  to  love  you,"  he  said; 
"and  I  have  known  that  truth  for  many  years. 
But  if  a  man  could  die  for  you — if  it  would 
help  you  that  I  should  die  for  you — " 

Bar- Abbas  looked  at  the  Lady  of  Magdala ; 
he  fumbled  for  words;  then  he  went  im 
patiently  to  the  door.  She  saw  him  put  on  his 
sandals.  She  heard  the  rap  of  his  sandals  as 
he  descended  the  stone  stair-case.  In  spite  of 
herself,  for  it  was  as  though  something  had 
driven  her,  she  went  to  the  window.  She 
watched  him  cross  the  courtyard.  He  took 
the  northern  road  that  led  toward  the  clotted 
grove  of  plane  trees.  She  ran  swiftly  down 
the  stair-case,  through  the  court  into  the  road. 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      63 

She  called  his  name  aloud — "Bar- Abbas! 
Bar- Abbas!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Then  she  heard  a  jangle  of  sheep-bells. 
The  flocks  were  coming  down  from  the  hills. 
The  silent  shepherds,  stilled  by  the  twilight, 
came  down  among  the  sheep.  It  was  a  slow 
procession  moving  among  the  hills. 

Now  in  front  of  it  was  a  Man,  dressed  in  a 
seamless  coat  of  white  linen.  He  walked 
slowly  among  the  tree-stems  and  all  about  him 
was  the  gray  and  sudden  twilight.  Very 
slowly  He  approached,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  stroke  the  heads  of  the  sheep  or  caress  the 
little  lambs ;  and  always  He  stepped  aside  that 
His  feet  might  not  crush  the  young  spring 
flowers  in  His  path. 

"Ho!  Shepherd!"  the  Lady  of  Magdala 
cried  to  Him,  "have  you  seen  the  man  Bar- 
Abbas?" 

The  Man  in  white  linen  stooped  and  picked 
up  a  little  lamb,  too  weak  for  the  journey — 
and  held  it  against  His  breast.  Then  He 
looked  at  the  Lady  of  Magdala. 


64     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"Bar- Abbas,"  she  said;  "have  you  seen  Bar- 
Abbas?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  Man  in  white  linen;  and 
He  gave  the  answer  very  gently. 

"Not  yet,"  the  Man  in  the  white  seamless 
coat  said;  He  lifted  the  lamb  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  it  and  whispered,  "Hush,  be  still!" 

And  the  lamb  lay  still  and  nestled  against 
His  breast.  He  went  His  way  through  the 
gray  tree-stems,  toward  the  sea,  all  gray. 
And  the  Lady  of  Magdala  returned  to  the  old 
Castle  of  Magdala  and  lay  down  on  her  bed: 
but  that  night  she  did  not  sleep — all  night  she 
lay  upon  her  bed  and  sobbed. 

"Not  yet."  Now  these  words  were  mean 
ingless,  but  as  the  dawn  came  faintly  into  the 
great  chamber  of  the  tower  of  Magdala,  the 
Lady  Mary  murmured  one  name  over  and 
over  again  in  her  sleep.  But  what  name  she 
spoke  the  old  nurse  could  not  tell. 

IV 

THE  sun  came  up  over  Magdala,  faint 
among  the  hills  and  red  upon  the  old  towers. 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      65 

The  Lady  Mary  waking  from  a  troubled 
dream,  looked  curiously  about  her — then  she 
remembered.  She  saw  her  old  nurse  sleeping 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Very  softly  she  rose 
and  drew  on  her  outer  garments.  As  she 
stooped  to  tie  her  sandals  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  risen  quite  in  spite  of  her  will.  It  was 
not  of  her  own  accord  that  she  had  risen  in  the 
pale  dawn.  Not  because  she  wished  it  was  she 
robing  herself  and  making  fast  her  sandals. 

The  light  that  came  in  through  the  woven 
windows  was  very  dim,  but  she  could  see  the 
jewels  she  had  stripped  from,  her  arms  and 
ankles  when  she  went  to  bed.  She  tied  the 
silken  girdle  round  her  waist — a  thing  all  yel 
low  silk  and  silver. 

Then  her  fingers  fell  upon  a  little  glass  vase ; 
so  slight  and  filmy  it  was  that  it  seemed  less 
like  glass  than  frozen  breath ;  she  remembered 
as  she  slipped  it  into  her  girdle,  that  the  Lord 
Pilatus  had  given  it  to  her  between  kisses — a 
flower-like  vase,  within  which  was  a  little  clot 
of  the  perfume  for  which  fifty  slaves  might 
have  been  bartered,  Why  she  thrust  this  vase 


66    THE  CARNIVAL  OF,  DESTINY 

into  her  girdle  she  did  not  know.     That  morn 
ing  many  things  seemed  strange  to  her. 

Suddenly  she  felt  that  she  must  go  away — 
very  quickly — without  stopping  to  kiss  her  old 
nurse — at  once,  without  waiting  till  the  day 
had  come.  So  she  went  swiftly  down  the  stair 
case,  across  the  courtyard  and  into  the  road; 
the  anklets  tinkled  round  her  little  feet  and 
from  her  shining  garments  there  fluttered  a 
perfume  of  nocturnal  hours,  but  these  things 
she  did  not  heed;  something  (and  what  that 
something  was  she  knew  not)  drew  her  on  and 
on,  down  the  long  highway  that  curved  past 
the  sea,  southward.  She  knew  not  whether 
she  walked  or  ran ;  only  this  she  knew,  that  she 
must  travel  this  long  road.  Her  little  gilded 
sandals  cracked  and  wasted  under  her  feet. 
She  neither  felt  nor  cared.  Broad  and  hot  the 
sun  wheeled  up  into  the  sky  and  burned  upon 
her.  She  did  not  notice  the  flare  of  the  sun. 
Always  she  hurried  on,  as  one  who  is  called  and 
needs  must  go.  One  thought  she  had  of  Bar- 
Abbas;  the  thought  flashed  through  her,  leav 
ing  her  cold  at  heart  and  chill ;  she  hastened  on. 


Twilight  came;  night  came.  In  the  towns 
she  traveled  through  men  leaned  from  the 
windows  and  jeered  at  her,  for  she  was  a  gilded 
and  perfumed  girl.  Once  a  woman  stopped 
her  and  gave  her  water  to  drink  and  bade  her 
stay,  for  the  woman  had  seen  the  jewels  on  her; 
once  she  thought  a  flesh  weariness  had  come 
upon  her  and  she  had  slept  by  the  roadside ;  but 
she  did  not  know.  Ceaseless,  insistent  some 
thing  urged  her  on.  She  saw  the  sun  go  down 
again  as  she  came  up  the  steep  street  of  a  little 
village. 

Now  what  the  Lady  of  Magdala  said  to  her 
self  was  this :  "Here — I  am  here !" 

She  knew  every  turn  of  the  street,  every 
house  front;  the  village  had  been  one  of  her 
father's  possessions,  ere  he  died  and  left  it  to 
his  elder  daughter;  and  many  a  time  she  had 
been  there  in  the  days  of  old — long  ago  when 
she  and  Martha  were  still  sisters — before  she 
had  known  the  foreign  laughter  and  the  alien 
kisses. 

As  she  breasted  the  hill  of  Bethany,  she 
thought  again  of  Martha — though  love  had 


68    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

long  been  dead  between  them.  Then  she 
thought  of  her  brother.  Always  she  had  loved 
Lazarus,  and  how  bravely  he  had  loved  her, 
this  brother.  A  weak,  helpless  man  he  was, 
for  God  had  touched  him  with  the  evil  of  epi 
leptic  fits,  but  she  loved  him,  she  thought  better 
than  anything  upon  earth.  Even  as  this 
thought  came  to  her  it  was  splintered.  The 
name  of  Bar- Abbas  sang  in  her  ears.  Then 
with  a  little  shudder  she  feared  she  must  not 
love  them  any  more. 

An  old  dog  came  up — growling;  after  a  mo 
ment  he  whined  and  rubbed  against  her.  The 
Lady  of  Magdala  touched  the  old  dog's  head 
softly. 

She  was  at  the  door  of  Martha's  House  in 
Bethany.  In  the  courtyard  there  were  three 
asses,  hobbled,  standing  meekly  beside  their 
saddle-bags.  Near  them  a  servant  lounged. 
He  had  filched  a  leathern  bottle  of  wine  and 
was  drinking,  tilting  the  skin  up  to  his  face. 
The  Lady  of  Magdala  did  not  look  at  him, 
but  for  a  second  he  made  a  vague  picture  in  her 
mind;  then  she  saw  the  great  room  beyond 


which  was  lighted  with  many  lamps  and  where 
guests  sat  at  supper.  She  did  not  see  her  sis 
ter,  Martha,  but  even  had  she  seen  her  she 
could  not  have  paused,  this  night,  at  the  door 
of  the  great  room.  As  one  who  goes  upon  an 
errand  she  crossed  the  threshold. 

Some  one  was  saying:  "Four  days  I  was 
dead — I  lay  in  the  tomb  and  He  bade  me  come 
forth";  the  words  came  to  her  dimly  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  brother  Lazarus  Kad 
spoken,  but  she  neither  knew  nor  cared. 

Again  the  voice :  "See  what  he  has  done  for 
me,  who  was  dead  and  am  alive!" 

The  Lady  of  Magdala  paid  no  heed. 

Straight  and  swift  she  went  to  the  Man, 
dressed  in  a  white  seamless  coat,  and  His  face 
was  pale,  very  sad,  wonderful;  and  His  eyes 
were  quiet  and  firm.  Now  this  happened. 
When  the  Lady  of  Magdala  looked  into  His 
eyes  she  gave  a  little  cry  and  sank  at  His 
feet. 

"Yes,  Master,"  she  said.  Twice  she  said 
these  words:  "Yes,  Master!" 

A  new  life  stirred  in  her;  it  was  as  though 


70    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

spring  had  come  with  all  its  flutter  and  exuber 
ance  of  life.  And  now  she  knew.  There 
among  the  plane  trees  He  had  called  to  her  to 
come  to  Him ;  and  she  had  come. 

For  the  third  time  she  said:  "Yes,  Mas 
ter!" 

She  would  have  stripped  the  jeweled  rings 
from  her  wrist  and  ankles  and  laid  them  at  His 
feet,  but  they  seemed  mere  dross. 

She  bethought  her  of  the  Egyptian  vase  in 
her  girdle.  It  was  flower-shaped,  fragile  as 
frozen  breath.  Within  it,  like  a  heart  of  gold, 
was  a  rare  perfume.  She  broke  the  vase  in  her 
little  hands.  She  moistened  His  feet  with  the 
perfume — and  through  the  room  the  perfume 
spread  like  music.  Then  the  Lady  of  Mag- 
dala  dried  His  feet  with  her  hair. 

Among  the  guests  was  one  who  murmured. 

"  'Twas  Egyptian  ware,  very  precious,"  he 
said,  "and  the  essence  was  worth  a  man's  ran 
som.  Why  was  it  not  sold  and  the  money 
given  to  the  poor?" 

He  was  a  pushing  man  with  a  scant-bearded, 
evil  face;  he  pressed  forward  noisily. 


"Let  her  alone,"  said  the  Man  in  white,  and 
He  spoke  very  gently;  "she  has  done  this  for 
My  burial." 

Hearing  these  words  the  Lady  of  Magdala 
raised  her  eyes  upon  Him,  but  even  as  she 
looked  she  cried  aloud,  for  on  His  pale  fore 
head  she  saw  drops  of  blood  and  wounds — as 
though  thorns  had  been  bound  there.  But  the 
others  did  not  see. 

V 

THE  Lord  Pilatus  was  angry  and  fearful; 
all  night  his  Roman  soldiers  had  swept  the 
streets,  but  at  daybreak  news  of  a  great  insur 
rection  had  been  brought  to  him,  and  he  had 
sent  Marcellus  with  fresh  troops.  Son  of  the 
sea-f arer  as  he  was,  and  of  him  who  threw  best 
the  javelin,  the  Lord  Pilatus  was  not  strong  in 
courage.  A  slight  fear  made  the  heart  in  him 
sway  like  water.  This  day,  as  he  crouched 
among  the  pillows,  there  in  the  throne-room  of 
his  palace  in  Jerusalem,  his  heart  was  sick  with 
fear.  If  the  Jewish  mob  won  it  was  death  for 
him,  and  if  he  escaped  them  he  must  face 


72     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Cassar's  vengeance,  which  was  worse  than 
death.  Fear-sick,  mind  and  body,  he  wal 
lowed  among  the  pillows  of  his  couch.  The 
two  armed  slaves — Gauls  they  were,  and  brave 
— smiled  as  they  guarded  him. 

There  were  swift  clanging  steps  in  the 
marble  hall  without,  and  Lord  Pilatus  cried: 
"Who  is  that?"  It  was  a  captain  of  his  guard 
who  entered,  crying:  "We  have  crushed 
them,  my  lord;  the  insurrection  is  crushed! 
We  have  taken  many  prisoners,  chief  of  them 
all  the  leader  of  the  mob." 

"Ah,  you  have  him,"  said  Pilatus;  smiling 
and  cruel  he  sat  up,  "the  leader!" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"And  he  lives?" 

"He  is  wounded,  my  lord,  but  he  lives." 

"A  Galilean,  is  he  not?"  asked  Pilatus, 
slowly. 

"From  Magdala,"  the  soldier  answered. 
"It  was  he  who  set  the  insurrection  on  foot. 
He  might  have  succeeded  had  not  some  of  his 
own  people  turned  against  him." 

"His  name?" 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      73 

"Bar- Abbas  they  call  him,"  said  the  captain 
of  the  Roman  guards;  "a  strong  fellow." 

Pilatus  mused  a  little. 

"Some  of  his  own  people  turned  against 
him?  Then  they  love  us?" 

"They  fear  another  Jew,  who  fights  not 
against  Rome  but  against  Jerusalem.  That  is 
what  they  say,"  the  soldier  replied. 

"The  insurrection  is  crushed,"  said  the  Lord 
Pilatus.  "Caesar  shall  reward  you.  And  this 
man — Bar- Abbas?  He  is  from  Galilee? 

"From  Magdala,  I  know,  yes,"  Pilatus  said 
softly,  "there  is  a  castle  there.  And  this 
man,"  he  repeated,  "is  not  yet  dead?  Bring 
him  here.  It  would  not  annoy  me  to  look  at 
him  before  he  died.  He  has  troubled  me.  He 
has  broken  my  rest.  Go !  Make  haste  t" 

As  the  officer  went  away  to  bring  him  this 
rebel,  Lord  Pilatus  rose,  feeling  his  manhood 
come  back ;  but  he  bade  his  armed  slaves  stand 
near  him. 

His  eyes  were  on  the  door  when  a  woman 
came  in  and  threw  herself  at  his  feet.  For  an 
instant  he  did  not  know  her,  for  she  was  draped 


74     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

in  a  rough  blue  cloak,  and  her  face  was  hag 
gard  and  worn  with  tears.  Then  he  knew  her 
and  smiled. 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  she  cried,  "there  is  a 
Man  who  must  die  unless  you  speak  the  word 
to  save  him." 

"I  know,"  said  the  Roman  governor  and  al 
ways  he  smiled;  "but  why  should  I  save  him, 
and  why  should  you  ask?  There  was  a  time 
when  you  might  have  asked  more  than  that,  but 
you  threw  your  chance  away.  And  now  you 
come  and  kneel  and  plead  for  a  favor  that  you 
might  have  commanded  in  those  days. 
Strange  creatures,  these  women,"  said  the  Ro 
man  governor.  He  turned;  a  black  girl 
brought  him  wine  and  he  drank. 

"Think,  my  lord;  He  must  not  die,"  the 
woman  urged,  trailing  herself  at  his  feet,  "for 
He  has  done  no  wrong.  He  brings  life.  He 
brings  love  and  life  and  peace  for  us  all.  The 
Jews  do  not  understand,  my  lord,  because  they 
are  blind.  Be  but  patient,  my  Lord  Pilatus, 
and  God  will  give  them  eyes  to  see.  My  lord, 
my  lord,  give  Him  not  up  to  the  Jews!" 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      75 

The  Roman  lord  studied  the  woman  at  his 
feet;  her  red  golden  hair  had  lost  its  bright 
ness  ;  her  face  was  disfigured  with  anguish,  but 
the  eyes  she  lifted  to  him  were  steady  with  rap 
ture  and  serenity;  it  was  not  thus  he  had  seen 
her  last,  riant  with  kisses  and  wine.  Then  he 
thought  of  what  she  had  said. 

"Save  what  man?"  he  asked. 

"The  Prophet,"  she  cried,  "Jesus  of  Naza 
reth;  for  the  captain  and  officers  of  the  Jews 
have  seized  Him  in  the  meadow  there  by  the 
brook  of  Cedron,  and  will  have  Him  die." 

The  Lord  Pilatus  smiled;  it  was  the  quiet 
smile  of  one  whose  brain  turns  to  cruelty  and 
amusement. 

"Ah,  there  is  another  prisoner  going  to  die 
to-day,"  he  said. 

"But  the  Prophet  must  not  die,"  Lady 
Mary  whispered. 

"It  is  a  feast  day  of  the  Jews,"  said  Pilatus, 
"some  foolish  day  of  sacrifice,  and  on  this  day 
it  is  an  old  habit  to  let  one  criminal  go  free. 
Choose  you,  my  dear,"  the  Roman  added 
kindly,  but  the  cruelty  had  crept  into  his 


76    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

eyes,  "the  Prophet  as  you  call  Him  or  the 
other  malefactor,  the  rebel.  Which  shall  go 
free?" 

"The  Prophet  must  not  die,"  said  the  Lady 
of  Magdala.  She  stood  up  white  and  urgent. 
"You  will  save  Him?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Pilatus,  smiling,  "let  the 
other  die.  Ho!  Guards  there!  Bring  in 
the  man." 

The  thanks  that  Mary  would  have  spoken 
faded  on  her  lips,  for  there  was  thrust  into  the 
white  throne-room  a  man  who  was  weak  and 
bloody  and  came  stumbling  in  his  irons. 

The  Lord  Pilatus  went  to  the  prisoner. 

"So,  rebel,"  he  said,  "you  fight  against 
Caesar — and  against  us!" 

He  looked  back  at  the  Lady  of  Magdala. 
"This  is  the  man  you  have  asked  me  to  crucify 
to-day." 

For  a  moment  the  woman  swayed  to  and 
fro ;  all  her  life  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at 
the  prisoner,  chained  there,  foul  with  blood 
and  defeat;  in  a  voice  that  she  herself  did  not 
hear  she  whispered,  "Bar-Abbas,  Bar-Abbas, 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      77 

you!"  Then  with  a  great  sob  she  threw  her 
self  before  Lord  Pilatus  and  held  his  knees  to 
her  breast  and  cried:  "Not  he,  not  he — I  did 
not  know  it  was  he!" 

Then  first  the  son  of  Abba  spoke. 

"Stand  up,  woman,"  he  shouted  hoarsely. 
"Oh,  God!  My  Lady  of  Magdala,  do  not 
kneel  there!" 

The  throb  of  anguish  in  the  prisoner's  voice 
pleased  the  Lord  Pilatus,  and  indifferently  as 
one  who  thrusts  away  a  tangle  of  grass,  he  re 
leased  his  feet;  he  went  toward  the  son  of 
Abba  and  smiled  at  him  and  said:  "I  prom 
ised  her  I  would  kill  you.  I'm  not  sorry  for 
it.  I  think  you've  kissed  her,  and  it  irks  me 
that  men  like  you,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
"should  glean  my  kisses." 

Now  the  Lady  Mary  had  risen  as  he  spoke ; 
she  laid  her  hand  softly  on  the  shoulder  of 
Bar- Abbas  and  said:  "You  know  I  do  not 
wish  your  death." 

"I  know,"  the  son  of  Abba  said  gently;  he 
raised  his  poor  manacled  hands,  as  though  he 
would  make  a  defense  for  her. 


78     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"And  the  other  man,"  asked  Pilatus  smil 
ing;  "does  He  know?" 

The  Son  of  Abba  threw  up  his  head  and 
snarled;  the  cry  that  came  from  him  was  sav 
age  and  hoarse  as  that  of  a  wild  beast;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  no  longer  himself, 
but  something  hairy  and  sullen,  lying  angrily 
by  a  camp-fire,  somewhere  in  the  long  ago; 
he  felt  a  need  of  letting  his  muscles  play  across 
each  other — of  wreaking  his  strength  and  an 
ger  on  this  smiling  man.  A  queer  word  came 
stammering  to  his  lips.  It  was  a  sound  of 
"Mar — Mar,"  that  had  no  meaning.  The 
haggard  woman  kissed  his  wrists — all  bloody 
from  the  chains — and  stammered: 

"Yes,  yes,"  nor  did  she  know  the  meaning. 
Perhaps  some  old  impulse  out  of  the  long  ago 
— some  touch  of  other  days — knit  them  to 
gether  at  that  moment. 

"Then  choose,  my  Lady  of  Magdala,"  said 
the  Lord  Pilatus,  who  smiled  always,  "this 
man — or  the  other." 

The  Son  of  Abba  went  toward  him  shield- 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      79 

ing  as  best  he  could  with  his  ironed  arms  the 
woman  who  clung  to  him  and  could  not  speak ; 
grimy  and  fierce  he  was,  but  his  voice  was  very 
gentle;  and  he  said:  "It  is  I  who  choose,  Ro 
man!"  and  to  Mary  he  said:  "You  know  I 
promised  to  die  for  you." 

"And  you  shall,"  the  Lord  Pilatus  said  with 
neat  emphasis;  "you  shall." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Lady  of  Magdala,  al 
ways  with  little  sharp  cries  of  pain;  "no,  no, 
not  you;  no,  no  I" 

"You  will  not  conquer  in  my  death,  Pilatus," 
Bar-Abbas  said,  and  again  he  spoke  gently, 
"for  the  Roman  tyranny  shall  perish  from  the 
earth,  and  if  it  be  not  I  who  leads  my  people, 
yet  there  will  be  a  leader.  You  cannot  kill 
Jerusalem — hark !" 

Without  there  was  the  sound  of  tumult ;  the 
noise  of  arms  was  heard;  always  the  cries  of 
many  voices — "the  Son  of  Abba! — the  Son  of 
Abba!  Set  him  free!  Give  us  back  the  Son 
of  Abba!" 

"My  people  have  spoken,"  said  Bar- Abbas, 


80     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"and  you,  my  Lord  Pilatus,  you  dare  not  set 
me  free;  for  if  I  go  to  them  Rome  perishes. 
And  that  you  know,  coward." 

The  cries  grew  louder  and  fiercer  without, 
and  Pilatus  felt  the  heart  in  him  rock  like 
water.  He  went  to  the  window  that  gave  upon 
the  street. 

"Long  ago  I  promised  to  die  for  you,"  Bar- 
Abbas  whispered  to  the  woman;  "what  does  it 
matter,  my  Lady  of  Magdala,  my  Lady  Mary, 
if  for  this  one  moment  you  have  really  loved 
me.  Now  that  I  know  you  love  me  I  have  the 
right  to  die  for  your  sake." 

There  came  Marcellus,  who  was  captain  of 
the  guards  of  Pilatus,  and  he  told  him:  "My 
lord,  we  cannot  hold  the  mob.  The  priests  are 
leading  the  people.  Release  this  rebel  to  them. 
They  have  given  up  another  in  his  place." 

"I  will  not,"  Pilatus  answered,  shaken  with 
anger  and  fear. 

"There  are  not  troops  enough  to  guard  the 
palace,"  the  officer  replied. 

Then  the  Lord  Pilatus  thought  of  himself; 
for  a  second,  too,  he  thought  darkly  of  Bar- 


THE  LADY  OF  MAGDALA      81 

Abbas  and  the  woman,  whose  castle  was  at 
Magdala,  but  Cassar  came  across  his  mind  and 
his  fear  quickened.  "Let  this  man  go,"  said 
he  sharply. 

The  slaves  struck  the  irons  from  the  arms 
and  legs  of  Bar-Abbas  and  thrust  him  out  of 
doors;  in  the  place  that  fronted  the  palace  the 
people  thronged  to  him  and  bore  him  in  their 
arms.  That  day  there  was  no  more  tumult. 
A  pale  Man  very  white  and  wonderful,  was 
scourged  and  given  up  to  the  High  Priests  of 
the  Jews,  for  He  said  He  was  their  King;  but 
the  High  Priests  said  they  would  have  no  King 
but  Csesar.  So  the  Man  was  sent  away  to  be 
killed,  after  the  fashion  of  slaves  who  revolt. 
There  was  no  stir,  for  this  man  had  no  follow 
ers,  save  a  few  feeble  folk. 

Dawn  had  come  up  again  in  that  part  of  the 
world.  It  was  a  feeble  dawn,  very  gray.  It 
made  only  a  little  light  in  a  garden  where  there 
was  a  new  grave.  There  was  a  woman  there, 
and  her  eyes  were  dazed  and  fixed. 

Now,  this  was  the  Lady  of  Magdala,  but 


82     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

she  knew  not  if  she  lived  or  were  she  dead. 
She  seemed  to  see  a  pale  figure,  that  was  not 
quite  real  nor  quite  a  part  of  the  gray  dawn— 
a  vague  figure,  very  wonderful.  Then  a  voice 
said:  "Mary."  She  knelt,  whispering,  "Yes, 
Master,"  and  twice  again  did  she  whisper, 
"Yes,  Master."  She  heard  the  voice  again, 
but  the  words  were  very  faint.  A  dim  kind 
of  sleep  gathered  in  her  brain.  She  did  not 
hear  the  footsteps  that  came  toward  her. 
Some  one  touched  her  head  humbly;  a  rough, 
dark  face  bent  over  her. 

"Mary!" 

"You!    Oh,  Bar- Abbas!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  rough  man,  lifting  her  in  his 
arms,  "come, — come — I,  too,  have  seen  Him." 

Through  the  gray  tree-stems  of  the  garden 
they  went  together;  hand  in  hand  they  went, 
wondering. 


'MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA' 


Ill 

"MAKE  THE  BED  FOE  ATTILA" 

IT  was  long  ago.  More  than  four  centuries 
had  gone  by  since  those  in  Jerusalem  had 
chosen  between  a  man  named  Bar- Abbas — a 
grim  rebel — and  Another,  who  was  no  rebel, 
though  He  was  to  overturn  the  world.  Over 
the  Roman  Empire  a  new  religion  had  crept 
up  stealthily  as  the  creeping  tide  comes  up  the 
sand.  The  idlers  in  the  streets  of  Rome  felt 
its  influence.  The  captains  lolling  in  the  baths 
knew  of  it.  Even  the  great  Emperor  Honor- 
ius  understood  that  a  new  idea  had  been  born 
among  his  people ;  playing  with  his  tame  fowls 
there  in  his  poultry-yard  in  Ravenna,  he  would 
say,  "I  trust  I  am  a  good  Christian,"  and  with 
skeptical  fingers  he  would  cross  himself. 

"But  what  is  a  Christian?"  Aulus  would  say 
lightly,  for  he  was  a  courtier  and  a  poet. 

85 


86     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

The  Emperor  used  an  exclamation  which  I 
dare  not  translate  into  our  modern  speech. 

"I  am,"  said  he.     "I  am  a  Christian." 

With  that  he  went  out  into  the  dull  green 
garden  that  lay  to  the  westward  of  his  palace 
in  Ravenna  and  fed  his  tame  hens.  Now  it 
was  quite  true  that  the  Emperor  Honorius 
should  be  a  Christian;  but  he  was  not  such  a 
Christian  as  you  and  I  are,  for  he  kept  the 
creed  only  that  he  might  hold  the  throne.  In 
deed,  it  is  well  known  that  he  had  bartered 
away  his  own  sister,  Placidia,  to  Alaric,  the 
Gothic  leader,  in  order  that  he  might  not  lose 
his  crown.  He  was  young  then,  but  he  had  no 
thought  for  this  little  sister,  who  was  carried 
away  into  barbarism  to  be  the  plaything  of 
a  savage.  He  had  saved  his  throne;  why 
should  he  care?  For  a  little  while  he  had 
saved  Rome — and  his  own  poultry-yard  in 
Ravenna.  After  many  years  Placidia  came 
back  to  him,  bruised  and  broken  with  barba 
rous  love. 

"You've  been  long  gone,"  said  the  Emperor 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA     87 

Honorius.     "It  is  many  years  since  I've  seen 

you." 

"Alaric  is  dead,"  said  the  woman  kneeling 
to  her  brother,  the  Emperor. 

"Dead?"  said  the  Emperor.  "Ah,  yes,  I  re 
member.  My  poor  sister !  I  thought  my  hen 
Roma  would  die  yesterday.  She  has  the  pip. 
But  she's  well  again.  You  should  see  her. 
She  eats  corn  out  of  my  hand." 

"Alaric  is  dead,"  said  the  woman;  life  had 
bruised  her  and  she  was  sad  and  quiet,  "and 
I  have  come  home.  You  sold  me,  brother,  to 
him.  I  know  it  was  to  save  the  throne,  and 
Rome  must  not  be  pillaged  by  the  barbarians. 
But  now  let  me  live  here  in  peace.  I  am  tired 
and  very,  very  weary  of  life.  Let  me  live 
quietly  here  with  my  little  girl." 

"I  remember,"  said  Honorius,  the  Roman 
Emperor.  "You  have  a  little  girl — the  daugh 
ter  of  the  barbarian?" 

"The  daughter  of  Alaric,"  said  the  woman, 
drooping;  "she  is  now  thirteen." 

"His    daughter,    is    she?"    Honorius    said 


88     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

sharply;  then  his  voice  dropped  into  good  na 
ture  and  he  drank  his  wine  and  said:  "Sister, 
what  is  mine  is  yours — only  the  Empire. 
You  and  this  little  barbarian  daughter  of 
yours.  What's  her  name?" 

"Honoria,"  said  the  poor  woman,  searching 
a  name  to  touch  his  vanity. 

"Honoria!"  cried  the  Emperor.  "Ah,  she 
can  be  no  common  girl!  You  gave  her  my 
name,  sister!" 

"Yes." 

"And  she  is  thirteen?  You  shall  live  here  in 
Ravenna,  at  the  palace,"  Honor ius  went  on 
blithely.  "I'll  give  you  rooms  facing  on  the 
poultry-yard." 

At  this  moment  there  came  up  to  them  a  little 
savage  girl;  she  was  watchful  and  timorous; 
her  eyes  were  steady  and  hard ;  round  her  head 
was  a  circle  of  thick  red  hair;  her  short  white 
coat  was  muddied  and  torn — the  gold  embroid 
ery  hanging  in  shreds;  one  small  knee  was 
scratched  and  bloody. 

"Honoria!"  the  Emperor's  sister  exclaimed 
with  calm  authority. 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    89 

"I  fell,  mother,"  the  child  said,  "but  it  wasn't 
my  fault — I  was  running." 

Honoria  rubbed  her  little  knee. 

"A  pretty  child,"  said  her  uncle,  the  Em 
peror. 

The  mother  drew  the  child  close  to  her  and 
fondled  the  little  red  head. 

"We  must  take  good  care  of  this  little  bar 
barian,"  the  Emperor  added,  "and  try  and 
make  a  Roman  lady  of  her." 

Placidia  stooped  and  kissed  the  child. 

"She  is  all  Roman,"  her  mother  said;  "her 
father  made  her  body,  but  I  made  her  soul." 

The  Emperor,  who  was  a  philosopher  in  his 
way,  discerned  a  thought  in  her  words;  for  a 
moment  he  dandled  it  to  and  fro,  then  he  said : 
"Quite  right.  The  mother  is  merely  the  soil 
in  which  the  seed  is  sown.  Whether  the  flower 
be  rose  or  peony  depends  upon  the  seed,  but 
once  the  seed  is  sown,  the  soil  shapes  it  and 
makes  the  flower  weak  or  strong.  I've  studied 
this  problem  a  good  bit.  Now  with  hens— 

A  man  approached  swiftly;  it  was  Aulus, 
and  his  sandals  crunched  the  gravel  as  he  ran. 


90     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"Rome  has  perished!"  cried  Aulus  while  he 
was  still  afar. 

"Roma!"  the  Emperor  exclaimed.  "Why 
only  an  hour  ago  she  was  feeding  from  my 
hand!" 

"It  is  not  Roma,  your  hen,"  said  Aulus 
sharply.  "It  is  the  Imperial  city — Rome!" 

"Ah,"  said  Honorius  brightly,  "why  did  you 
frighten  me  so?  I  thought  you  meant  my 
hen!" 

The  little  girl  heard  these  things  and  won 
dered;  she  was  only  a  child,  but  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Alaric.  That  night  she  slept 
slimly  in  her  little  bed  and  dreamed  of  strange 
warriors — grim  barbarians  who  rode  down 
upon  Rome  and  sacked  it  and  carried  away  the 
women  and  girls.  It  was  a  fearful  dream  and 
in  her  sleep  she  cried  aloud. 

The  days  went  by  over  the  little  Lady  Hon- 
oria.  Her  red  hair  grew  longer.  The 
thoughts  in  her  eyes  deepened.  The  slim  child 
ishness  fell  away  from  her  body.  She  was 
fifteen  years  old.  And  how  dull  life  was,  there 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    91 

in  the  sun-baked  palace  which  lies  along  the 
river  in  Ravenna — how  very  dull.  The  Em 
peror  had  no  thought  save  for  his  tame  fowls. 
Always  her  mother  sat  brooding,  staring  into 
the  north,  as  though  she  were  thinking  of  the 
savage  master  she  had  known — this  Alaric,  who 
had  taught  her  that  love  is  slavery. 

This  afternoon  the  small  Lady  Honoria  was 
alone  in  the  garden — alone  save  for  a  chromatic 
lizard  that  slipped  down  on  the  hot  marble 
bench  beside  her  and  lay  there  drinking  the 
heat. 

Her  thoughts  went  away  into  the  land  of  her 
father — that  wild  land  beyond  the  Alps.  She 
mused  upon  the  fierce  men  who  wandered  there 
—hairy  men  who  rode,  clashing  buckler  and 
sword,  shouting  to  their  maddened  horses. 
Again  and  again  one  name  flashed  across  her 
mind — Attila,  who  hovered  on  the  edge  of  the 
Empire  like  a  bird  of  prey.  Attila — Attila — 
the  name  rang  in  her  ears.  She  knew  how  dan 
gerous  a  man  was  he.  Had  she  not  read  the 
poets  of  the  hour?  He  was  not  quite  a  man, 
not  wholly  a  beast ;  perhaps  a  demon,  the  poets 


92     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

said,  for  the  color  of  his  skin  was  yellow.  He 
had  come  out  of  the  East,  they  said,  and  the 
new  sun  had  stained  his  skin.  From  the  far 
steppes  of  the  East  he  had  ridden  with  his  sav 
age  yellow  warriors  many  a  league,  crossing  the 
sulky  Danube  to  harry  the  rich  lands  of  Gaul. 
Even  Rome  feared  him  now;  the  great  Em 
peror,  Honorius  talked  only  of  Attila — of  At- 
tila  and  his  tame  fowls.  Had  he  not  swept 
down  upon  Paris  and  Orleans?  Had  he  not 
won  a  great  victory  at  Chalons,  which  is  on  the 
river  Marne?  Attila — Attila. 

The  little  girl  Honoria  sat  on  the  marble 
bench  in  the  sunlight  with  her  brother,  the 
lizard,  and  dreamed  of  Attila.  Through  all 
her  little  veins  the  blood  of  another  barbarian 
ran  swift  and  hot.  Vaguely  she  recalled  the 
camp-fire  in  the  fields,  the  lust  of  battle  and 
the  shock  of  weapons.  What  had  she  to 
do  with  Rome?  She  took  a  wooden  codex 
smeared  with  wax  and  laid  it  on  her  knee. 
With  the  stilus  she  made  ready  to  write. 

Pausing,  the  Lady  Honoria  ruffled  her  red 
hair.  She  would  write.  But  what  should  she 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    93 

write  and  to  whom  ?  Always  there  rang  in  her 
ears  the  music  of  that  one  name  "Attila — At- 
tila!"  It  was  music  subtle  and  soft  as  the 
purring  of  cats.  Attila— 

The  Lady  Honoria  wrote  this  letter: 

Attila,  my  Lord: 

I  who  write  to  you  am  Honoria,  daughter  of  Pla- 
cidia,  who  was  wife  to  the  great  barbarian  Alaric. 
My  Lord  Attila,  your  fame  is  bright  in  the  world. 
It  shines  upon  me  like  the  sun.  Come  to  me,  my 
Lord  Attila,  and  take  me.  Here  in  the  palace  of 
Honorius  I  die,  for  I  am  sick  of  this  life.  I  have 
kisses  for  you  and  you  shall  come  and  take  them.  I 
am  young  and  I  love  you.  With  this  letter  I  send 
you  a  ring  of  gold  which  I  have  taken  from  my  fin 
ger,  and  you,  receiving  this  ring,  will  know  I  am  your 
promised  wife — Attila,  my  Attila.  By  a  faithful 
messenger  I  send  this  letter  and  this  ring. 

HONORIA. 

When  she  had  signed  her  name  to  the  letter 
she  bade  a  slave  who  was  near  her  summon  the 
poet,  Aulus. 

"This  letter  is  for  Atilla,"  she  said  to  Aulus. 

The  poet's  face  paled.  He  looked  at  her 
with  angry  impatience. 

"Aulus,"  she  said  softly. 


94     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"I  cannot  take  it,"  he  said. 

"For  me  you  will,"  the  girl  said  coaxingly; 
and  she  went  close  to  him,  shaking  her  red  hair. 

"Attila,"  the  man  repeated. 

"But  if  I  ask  you  to  take  it — " 

"Give  it  to  me,"  the  man  said. 

A  bitter  smile  went  across  his  lips. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  come  to  Attila,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  said  the  girl,  "that  the  Romans 
do  not  care  to  meet  him." 

For  a  little  while  Aulus  looked  at  her  and 
did  not  speak ;  there  was  something  about  this 
strange,  wild  girl's  beauty  that  made  his  heart 
sway  like  fluid  in  a  shaken  tube;  many  a  lyric 
night  he  had  dreamed  of  her;  perhaps  he  had 
hoped  that  she  would  give  him  her  love;  for 
poets  are  foolish  folk;  he  had  never  dreamed 
that  she  would  give  him  death. 

"The  Romans  do  not  fear  Attila  nor  death," 
he  said  quietly;  "they  died  at  Aquileia;  they 
died  at  Verona  and  Milan,  and  to-morrow 
they  may  die  at  Pavia.  And  if  I  take  your 
letter  to  him— 

"You,  too,  may  die?"  Honoria  interrupted 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA     95 

him  swiftly.  "Ah,  no — you  shall  see  Attila 
and  live." 

"One  of  us — only  one  of  us — will  live,"  said 
Aulus.  He  was  a  poet,  and  had  moments 
when  his  courage  outran  his  fear. 

"Then  go,"  the  girl  said. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  young  white 
hand. 

"And  if  I  do  not  come  again?"  he  asked. 

"Then  Attila  will  come,"  she  answered,  and 
the  barbarian  blood  in  her  flushed  up  into  her 
cheeks,  and  she  shook  loose  the  wanton  glory 
of  her  red  hair. 

Aulus  thrust  the  letter  into  his  girdle. 

"I  will  carry  this  letter  to  the  camp  of  the 
Huns,  and  it  shall  be  given  to  Attila,"  he  said, 
"and  you,  Princess — " 

"I!"  cried  Honoria.  She  turned  away, 
laughing,  for  this  man's  love  seemed  pale  and 
withered  to  her ;  and  her  heart  was  far  abroad, 
among  the  swift  horsemen  and  the  sharp 
swords  that  were  sweeping  down  to  harry 
Rome. 


96     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

And  there  was  fear  in  Rome. 

The  Roman  lords  lay  shivering  in  their 
couches;  among  roses  and  wine-cups  and 
dancing-girls,  fear  crept  close  to  them  and 
hushed  their  laughter.  The  yellow  warriors 
from  the  far  East  who  were  coming  down 
upon  them  were  more  terrible  than  the  bat 
talions  of  Alaric,  these  savage  horsemen  who 
rode  bloodthirsty  and  savage,  through  the  ease 
ful  Empire.  And  who  could  stay  them? 
They  were  not  human  men.  Their  skins  were 
yellow.  Their  eyes  lay  slanting  under  their 
protuberant  brows.  Their  black  hair  took  the 
wind.  As  they  rode  down  upon  the  land  their 
swords  clashed,  and  they  shouted  fierce,  mean 
ingless  words  to  their  lean  horses.  A  wild 
race — Lord  forgive  us !  An  impious  and  fore- 
damned  race!  Like  vermin  they  had  crept 
through  all  the  Roman  lands  north  of  the 
Apennines.  Now  they  were  crowding  down 
upon  Rome  itself. 

Honorius  fluttering  about  his  fowl-yard 
(for  he  was  a  hen  rather  than  a  man)  knew  not 
whether  Ravenna  itself  were  safe.  Upon  all 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    97 

the  Empire  lay  fear,  white  and  sodden,  like  wet 
linen  bands. 

They  would  have  prayed,  these  Romans, 
but  they  knew  not  to  whom  to  pray.  Not 
even  a  ghost  of  Apollo  haunted  the  evening 
air.  Venus  was  dead  and  Bacchus  rode  no 
more — even  Pan  lay  dead  among  the  green 
brakes ;  all  dead  the  old  gods,  and  the  Romans 
were  not  quite  sure  that  the  new  God,  who  had 
died  that  Bar-Abbas  might  live,  would  answer 
them  should  they  call  upon  him.  Some  priests 
said  yes,  but  the  philosophers  sneered. 

Always  that  victorious  horde,  which  was  the 
army  of  Attila,  came  riding  down  the  sun- 
stained  valleys  of  Italy;  and  always  round  the 
hearts  of  the  Romans  fear  wrapped  itself  like 
cold,  wet  bandages. 

Now  this  afternoon  the  sun  blazed  hot  and 
full  upon  Ravenna.  Even  the  hens  in  the  Im 
perial  fowl-yard  were  irked  by  the  heat;  they 
scratched  deep  holes  in  the  soil  and  fluttered 
their  wings;  the  Emperor  Honorius  felt  for 
them,  and  bade  the  slaves  bring  water  to  cool 
the  soil.  His  sister,  Placidia,  all  in  white  sat 


98    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

upon  a  marble  bench  near  the  fowl-house. 
She  was  very  calm  and,  save  that  her  fingers 
and  eyelids  twitched,  was  very  still.  Near  her 
a  girl  in  a  saffron-colored  gown  lolled,  one  foot 
drawn  up  under  her  knee.  The  sunlight  made 
strange  plays  of  light  and  shade  in  her  loose 
coils  of  red  hair.  Her  eyes  were  dreamy.  It 
may  be  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away — in 
forest  glades,  in  glimmering  prairies,  among 
the  savage  hills  of  another  world  in  the  North. 
She  was  not  beautiful,  this  girl;  as  she  lay 
there,  curled  like  a  cat,  brooding  with  green 
ish  eyes,  the  hair  of  her  thick  and  red,  she 
looked — more  than  woman  ever  should  look- 
like  the  daughter  of  Alaric. 

A  messenger  came,  spoke  to  Honorius, 
bowed  low  and  w^ent.  He  was  ill-tempered, 
the  Emperor,  for  fear  and  anger  are  always 
close  together. 

"Is  there  no  one  to  do  anything?"  he  asked 
sharply.  "And  the  priests — where  are  the 
priests?  We  have  a  religion,  have  we  not? 
We've  a  new  God?  Eh?  The  priests  are 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    99 

paid.  We've  bishops  and  lords  of  the  church. 
We  all  do  our  duty  to  them.  Then  let  them 
save  us  now  from  this  yellow  demon.  Attila! 
Attila!  Attila!" 

Three  times  he  spoke  the  name ;  the  first  time 
he  was  thinking  of  the  barbarian  chief  of  the 
yellow  Huns;  but  the  second  time  and  the  third 
he  was  calling  a  little  Persian  cock  to  which  he 
had  given  the  barbarian's  name. 

"Well,"  he  added,  and  he  snapped  out  the 
word  like  the  crack  of  a  whip ;  a  blond  British 
slave  had  come  up  to  him  gesticulating  humbly. 

"The  Bishop  Leo  has  arrived  and  craves  an 
audience,"  said  the  slave  softly. 

"Leo,"  cried  the  Emperor,  "bring  him  in." 

In  spite  of  the  blazing  sunlight,  the  Lady 
Placidia,  all  in  white,  shivered  a  little;  some 
thing  cold  ran  through  her  veins  and  settled 
about  her  heart,  for  she  had  known  the  Bishop 
Leo.  Had  not  he  sold  her  to  Alaric  that 
Rome  might  be  saved?  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  her  daughter's  knee  for  a  new  terror  came 
to  her. 


100     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"Honoria,"  she  said. 

The  girl  rocked  to  and  fro,  her  foot  under  her 
knee,  and  smiled. 

"If  it  be  the  Bishop  Leo,  what  then?"  she 
asked  lazily. 

Her  eyes  were  dreamy  and  savage;  it  was 
as  though  she  knew.  Her  mother's  face 
blanched,  for  she  was  sure  that  her  daughter 
did  not  know  and  could  not  know  this  yellow 
lord  of  the  steppes;  but  she — how  well  she 
knew!  She  would  have  spoken  but  she  found 
no  words  ready,  and  as  she  sought  for  them 
there  came  a  cortege  of  people  conducting  the 
Bishop  Leo.  He  was  an  old  man,  very  small 
and  faint  and  white,  but  he  was  robed  in  a 
purple  cloak  that  shamed  the  dress  of  the  Em 
peror  Honorius.  As  he  passed  the  Lady 
Placidia  he  glanced  at  her  and  a  little  sneer 
flickered  up  in  his  old  and  wrinkled  face;  per 
haps  he  remembered  the  day  when  he  had 
pawned  her  to  Alaric,  the  fierce  chief,  to  save 
Rome;  perhaps  he  thought  of  her  soul — it 
might  have  been  that. 

The  old  bishop  got  upon  his  knees  and  kissed 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    101 

the  hand  of  Honorius ;  then  he  rose  and  blessed 
him  abruptly  with  a  certain  air  of  celestial  pat 
ronage. 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  said  Leo  the  Bishop,  "an 
old  man — and  twice  it  is  to  be  my  good  for 
tune  to  save  Rome." 

Saying  this  Leo  looked  at  the  poor  Lady 
Placidia;  but  she  dared  not  meet  his  eyes  and 
fondled  the  red-haired  girl  at  her  side.  The 
Emperor  Honorius  clucked  to  his  hens. 

"There  is  a  messenger  from  Attila,"  said 
the  Bishop.  "He  waits  without." 

There  were  three  people  who  heard  these 
words  of  the  Bishop.  Each  of  the  three  acted 
in  a  very  different  way.  Placidia  put  one  arm 
softly  round  her  daughter,  but  Honoria,  with  a 
little  ripple  of  laughter,  drew  away  and  sat 
up,  staring  at  the  Bishop.  As  for  Honorius 
he  babbled  and  repeated,  "Attila!  Attila!" 
and  then  scratched  the  neck  of  one  of  his  tame 
hens. 

"An  Embassy  from  Attila?"  said  the  Em 
peror  Honorius  peevishly.  "I  don't  want  any 
thing  but  peace.  If  they  don't  bring  peace  let 


102     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

them  go  again.     I'll  not  hear  them.     What 
credentials?" 

The  Bishop  had  not  waited  till  the  ruler  of 
the  world  had  finished ;  even  as  Honorius  spoke 
he  had  made  a  gesture  of  command  to  some  of 
his  people  and  the  seven  yellow  ambassadors  of 
Attila  were  introduced.  They  were  small  and 
hardy  men,  battle-worn  and  rough.  They  ap 
proached  in  two  ranks  of  three  each,  leaving  a 
space  for  one  who  walked  in  the  middle.  The 
men  in  the  first  rank  saluted  the  Bishop  and 
then  the  Emperor;  having  made  their  gruff 
salutations  they  stepped  aside,  that  he  who 
stood  in  the  space  between  the  two  ranks 
might  advance.  He  came  forward  slowly,  this 
barbarous  man.  He  was  short  and  small,  and 
the  lank  hair  that  fell  about  his  face — a  yellow, 
square  face  it  was — was  black  and  coarse. 
From  ankle  to  knee,  from  waist  to  shoulder  he 
was  naked,  save  for  the  leathern  shield  that 
hung  on  his  back.  The  quick  little  eyes  with 
which  he  looked  from  the  Bishop  to  the  great 
Honorius  were  bright  and  mocking  as  the  eyes 
of  a  squirrel.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  Lady 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    103 

Placidia,  and  from  her  his  eyes  traveled  to  the 
red-haired  girl  beside  her. 

"I  am  Attila's  messenger,"  he  said,  speak 
ing  the  Roman  tongue,  but  with  queer,  harsh 
intonations,  as  though  a  dog  had  barked  it  out. 
"Attila's  messenger  am  I.  What  words  I  say 
he  seals  with  this — with  this." 

He  threw  down  on  the  gravel  path  a  bloody 
head,  a  head  with  thick,  brown  curls  on  it,  that 
turned  as  it  fell  and  showed  the  white  face  of 
Aulus — he  who  was  once  a  poet.  The  Em 
peror  spreading  the  wings  of  an  affectionate 
hen,  did  not  notice,  but  Honoria  cried  aloud 
the  man's  name. 

"Aulus,"  she  cried  and  "Aulus !    Aulus !" 

And  Placidia  whispered  "O  God!  O  God! 
God!"  A  murmur  of  words  that  were  a 
prayer.  The  dead  face  stared  up  from  the 
gravel.  There  was  a  smile  on  the  white  face 
of  the  thing,  a  tender  smile  very  wonderful. 
The  girl  looked  at  it.  She  had  never  known 
before  what  life  was.  Now  this  dead  face  was 
teaching  her  that  life  is  death  and  that  there  is 
no  love  which  is  not  stronger  than  death.  A 


104     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

thought  like  this  rocked  in  her  brain,  but  there 
came  to  her  lips  only  a  sort  of  gasping  cry 
which  was  perhaps  "Aulus!  Aulus!"  and  al 
ways  that  dead  thing  on  the  gravel  staring  up 
at  her  dumb  and  white. 

The  Hun  and  the  Bishop  were  talking  to 
gether.  The  great  Emperor  Honorius  lis 
tened  idly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "of  course,  yes — the  little 
rogue — yes." 

"And  the  ring?"  the  Bishop  asked  with  suave 
insistence. 

The  Hun  had  tied  the  ring  in  his  hair  for 
safe-keeping;  he  untwisted  it  and  gave  it  to  the 
Bishop — a  thick  ring  it  was  of  soft  and  virgin 
gold,  a  nuptial  ring,  the  little  ring  that  Honoria 
had  sent  to  Attila. 

"There  it  is,"  said  the  Hun;  "it  is  the  price  of 
Rome.     Give  me  the  girl  for  Attila  and  he  will 
turn   back,    leaving   your    lands    unpillaged. 
And  she  is  willing;  it  was  she  who  called  him— 
she  who  sent  the  ring.     Is  this  the  maid?" 

"No!"  cried  Honoria,  for  it  was  at  her  he 


MAKE  THE  BED  FOR  ATTILA    105 

looked,  "no,  no!"  always  the  white  thing  on  the 
gravel  was  staring  at  her — "no!" 

"She  is  like  her  mother,"  said  Honorius 
mildly,  and  he  motioned  up  the  slaves. 

"Take  her  to  Attila." 

•  •  •  •  •  *  • 

Now  the  strange  thing  is  this:  the  slaves 
thrust  her  into  a  litter  and  she  was  borne  away 
to  the  North,  and  at  the  side  of  the  litter  rode 
seven  yellow  men,  grim  and  fierce.  Quite  well 
she  knew  she  was  going  to  Atilla — the  yellow 
lord;  always,  too,  she  was  haunted  by  a  white 
face  dead  on  the  gravel;  yet  she  had  no  fear. 
Perhaps  in  her  was  the  soul  of  Marj,  who  loved 
both  brute  and  poet.  Or  it  may  be  that  in  her 
was  the  soul  of  Mary  Magdalen. 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO 


IV 

THE   SOUL   OF   MESSER   GUIDO 

For  by  diabolical  arts,  he  assumed  varied  forms 
and  deceived  many  people  by  many  occult  tricks. 
FROMAN.  TRACT.  DE  FASCINATION. 

I 

IT  was  a  chill  autumnal  night.  Now  and 
then  the  rain  came  in  sudden  torrents,  splashed 
across  the  Mercato  Vecchio,  whistled  along  the 
narrow  streets,  and  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  begun.  Though  it  was  still  early  in  the 
night  there  were  few  people  abroad,  for  that 
day  there  had  been  a  riot  in  which  the  Uberti 
had  killed  their  enemy  and  called  half  Florence 
to  arms.  Quiet  had  come,  but  disquietude  re 
mained;  the  houses  were  shut  and  barricaded; 
in  all  Florence  there  were  only  reckless  folk 
abroad — vagabonds,  soldiers  and  those  who 
hunt  pleasure. 

In  the  Mercato  Vecchio,  which  in  those  days 

109 


110    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

was  not  old,  there  was  a  little  light.  It  came 
from  a  lamp  burning  before  the  shrine  of  a  Ma 
donna  at  the  corner  where  a  convent  stood. 
Screened  by  the  niche  in  which  it  was  set,  the 
lamp,  in  spite  of  rain  and  wind,  threw  a  lane  of 
light  across  the  wet  flags  of  the  market  place 
and  flickered  on  the  bronze  devil  which 
crouched  at  the  door  of  the  palace  Cavolaio. 

Toward  this  light  a  man  went  feebly.  He 
was  a  lean  and  drooping  man,  dressed  in  black 
clothes  that  were  worn  and  foul  as  though  he 
had  slept  in  the  sand-pits  along  the  Arno.  He 
walked  slowly.  Every  now  and  then  he 
paused  and  groaned ;  then  a  cough  would  hack 
at  his  lungs,  shaking  him  like  a  rag;  when  the 
fit  of  coughing  passed  he  would  drag  himself 
on  again.  Perhaps  no  more  abject  thing  ever 
crawled  across  the  market  place  of  Florence. 
Yet  in  spite  of  his  bent  shoulders  and  wasted 
face  you  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  young 
ish  man — thirty  years  of  age,  perhaps.  He 
had  not  the  air  of  a  rogue;  he  was  far  too 
spiritless  and  broken  for  that;  nor  could  he 
have  ever  been  a  gentleman,  for  no  matter  how 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  111 

low  a  man  falls,  the  mark  of  blood  and  breed 
ing  is  never  quite  obliterated.  He  might  per 
haps  have  been  a  poor  scholar,  though  he  wore 
no  dagger,  or  a  broken  priest. 

Next  to  the  convent  stood  a  narrow  house  of 
two  stories,  set  back  from  the  market  place  so 
as  to  form  an  angle,  wherein  the  poor  wretch 
sheltered  himself  from  the  gusts  of  wind  and 
rain.  A  cough  shook  his  lean  carcass  to  and 
fro ;  when  he  got  his  breath  back  he  said  softly : 
''This  must  be  the  end  of  it." 

He  was  too  weak  to  curse  or  pray ;  he  waited 
for  death  to  come — dumb  and  cowed  as  a 
trapped  beast.  Somewhere  a  bell  began  to  toll 
the  hour  very  slowly,  and  the  dull  noise  of  it 
boomed  over  Florence.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  sound  of  the  bell  was  like  a  flight  of  great 
birds.  One  after  the  other,  with  huge  slow 
wings,  these  great  birds  soared  through  the 
blue  of  the  night. 

"One — two — three.  It  must  be  ten  o'clock 
they  are  striking,"  he  said,  and  shivered  as 
though  he  thought  how  far  he  was  from  dawn 
and  the  blessed  heat  of  the  sun.  The  dark, 


112     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

chill  hours   stretched   before  him  and  death 
knocked  at  his  heart. 

Now,  mark  you,  a  strange  thing:  at  that  mo 
ment  he  heard  voices,  the  clank  of  steel, 
laughter  and  the  tripping  of  little  feet,  and  out 
of  the  darkness,  into  the  lane  of  light  shed  by 
the  Madonna's  lamp,  there  came  three  people. 
One  was  a  stark,  soldierly  man,  so  cloaked  that 
one  could  see  little  save  the  yellow  curls  about 
his  face;  there  came  also  an  armed  serving- 
man,  his  long  sword  jangling  at  his  heels;  be 
tween  these  two  a  woman.  She  was  tall,  lis 
some  and  young;  she  was  very  beautiful — the 
starved  and  dying  wretch  crouching  against  the 
house  wall  saw  that  she  was  very  beautiful. 
He  saw  the  jewels  in  her  red  hair,  and  when  for 
a  moment  their  eyes  crossed,  he  saw  the  beauty 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  strange,  too,  that  when  the 
woman's  eyes  met  his  it  seemed  that  life  flamed 
up  in  him  like  a  torch.  His  heart  beat  quick 
and  strong  like  a  soldier's  heart.  His  breath 
went  helpful  and  painless  to  his  torn  lungs. 
His  dull  mind  wakened;  a  thousand  pictures 
flashed  across  it — scenes  out  of  history — men 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO   113 

dying  for  women  and  women  cheating  death 
with  a  kiss. 

The  door  of  the  narrow  house  was  opened 
from  within.  The  yellow-haired  soldier  stood 
aside  that  she  might  enter  first.  For  one  mo 
ment  she  paused  on  the  threshold  and  glanced 
sidewise  at  the  ragged  figure  by  the  wall.  The 
look  of  her  stung  him  like  acid,  and  he  knew 
not  whether  her  message  was  life  or  death. 
The  door  closed  upon  her.  The  market  place 
was  dark  save  for  the  faint  light  that  went 
abroad  from  the  lamp  of  the  Madonna.  The 
man  shuddered,  clutching  at  the  stone  wall. 
His  legs  swayed  under  him.  There  was  a  rip 
ping  pain  in  his  side.  He  reeled ;  he  knew  he 
was  falling  and  that  when  he  fell  he  would 
never  rise  again.  Fighting  for  life,  he  fought 
to  keep  his  feet. 

Always  the  bell  rang  somewhere,  tolling  the 
hour  very  slowly. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  drifted  heavily  over 
Florence,  like  some  huge  bird  of  the  night. 

How  long  his  struggle  lasted  the  ragged 


114     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

man  did  not  know.  An  arm  was  swept  round 
him  and  held  him  up — that  was  his  first  definite 
sensation;  the  second  was  that  of  a  voice  say 
ing:  "Steady,  there,  my  friend;  don't  give 
way — steady."  The  voice  came  dimly  to  him ; 
as  though  from  a  great  distance.  Then  he 
knew  that  a  flask  wras  held  to  his  lips,  and  some 
thing  fiery  and  helpful,  like  old  wine,  ran  down 
his  throat. 

"It  is  a  rare  wine.     It  will  do  you  good." 

The  ragged  man  straightened  up  with  a  little 
gasp,  so  potent  was  the  drink. 

"It  has  done  me  good,"  he  said.  Life  came 
back  to  him.  He  recognized  the  market  place, 
the  lamp  of  the  Madonna  flickering  in  the  wet 
night,  the  bulk  of  the  house  wall;  he  saw  the 
man  who  supported  him — a  small,  dark,  well- 
fed  man,  dressed  in  doubtlet  and  hose  of  or 
ange-colored  cloth,  a  furred  coat  and  a  cap 
with  a  galloon  of  tawny  silk. 

"Can  you  walk  now?  Good;  good.  'Tis  a 
rare  wine  that,  and  might  bring  a  man  back 
from  the  dead.  Lean  on  me.  We  sup  to 
gether  to-night,  and  this  is  our  road." 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  115 

The  place  whither  they  went  was  a  tavern  in 
a  small  street  near  by.  The  man  with  the 
furred  coat  pushed  the  door  and  entered,  as  one 
who  is  sure  of  his  welcome,  and  indeed  the  land 
lord  bustled  up  blithely. 

"Signor  Malesto,"  said  the  landlord,  bowing 
to  the  well-fed  little  gentleman,  and  glancing 
askance  at  his  ragged  companion,  "you've  come 
at  the  nick  of  time.  There  is  a  capon  on  the 
spit." 

"Bring  it  to  the  table,  man,  and  make 
haste.  This  is  no  time  for  your  talk.  My 
friend  here  is  hungry.  He  has  come  from  a 
long  distance,"  Signor  Malesto  said,  and 
added,  half  to  himself,  "aye,  from  the  gates  of 
death." 

Signor  Malesto  had  the  look  of  a  gentleman. 
He  was  an  oily  little  man,  overfat,  red,  yet  he 
did  not  lack  distinction.  His  eyes  were  black 
and  dull,  as  though  there  were  a  thin  film  over 
them.  Indeed,  it  was  quite  impossible  to  read 
the  meaning  in  his  eyes.  His  mouth  was  win 
some.  As  he  talked,  pleasant  and  confidential 
smiles  flickered  on  his  red  lips.  He  wore 


116    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

neither  beard  nor  mustaches.  His  hair  was 
black  and  thin  on  top,  as  is  the  case  with  men 
who  lead  graceless  lives.  Withal  he  was  a 
merry  and  attractive  man.  I  have  said  that 
there  was  the  air  of  a  gentleman  about  him,  and 
that  is  quite  true.  Even  as  he  lolled  across  the 
table  of  the  dingy  tavern — a  little,  bloated, 
boisterous  man  in  an  orange  doublet — one 
would  have  said  that  he  was  of  good  blood  and, 
it  might  be,  of  an  ancient  house. 

Food  and  drink  were  served  to  them;  the 
ragged  man  tore  at  the  fowl  with  wolfish  teeth 
and  swallowed  huge  draughts  of  the  landlord's 
wine.  Signer  Malesto  watched  him  with 
shrewd  but  not  unkindly  interest. 

"I'm  none  of  your  purse-proud  gentry,"  he 
said.  He  had  white,  fat  hands,  carbuncled 
with  rubies,  and  as  he  spoke  he  waved  them  in 
the  air.  "I  can  sympathize  with  those  who  are 
down.  What  shame  is  there  in  an  empty 
belly?  In  the  devil's  name  what  shame  is 
there?  Better  men  than  you  have  dined  on  the 
north  wind.  Eat,  my  friend — nay,  you'll  not 
leave  the  back  of  that  capon  on  the  dish.  'Tis 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  117 

the  best  part.     You'll  notice,  the  cooks  always 
keep  it  for  themselves." 

The  ragged  man  could  eat  no  more.  He 
quaffed  a  cup  of  wine  and  wiped  his  bearded 
lips.  Then  he  looked  across  at  his  host,  his  hol 
low  eyes  bright  with  gratitude. 

"God's  blessing  on  you!"  he  said  earnestly; 
"you've  done  a  good  deed  and  the  deed  of  a 
Christian  man." 

Signer  Malesto  leaned  back  and  laughed. 
It  was  laughter  so  mad  and  joyous  that  the 
landlord  thrust  his  head  from  the  kitchen  door 
and  laughed  out  of  mere  sympathy. 

"I  do  not  see,"  the  ragged  man  began  with  a 
touch  of  anger,  for  food  had  emboldened  him— 
"I  do  not  see  why— 

"Tut!  tut!  friend;  never  mind  my  laughter," 
said  Signor  Malesto.  "It  is  a  whimsy  of  mine 
to  laugh  now  and  then.  You  are  a  wrell  spoken 
young  man  and  I  thank  you.  And  your 
name?" 

"Guido,"  said  his  guest.  "It  is  a  name  like 
any  other — one  may  be  called  by  it,  damned  by 
it.  It  is  a  name  like  any  other." 


118     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"That  is  a  bitter  word,  Master  Guido — since 
that  is  all  of  your  name  I  am  to  know — and 
there  must  be  a  bitter  life  behind  it,"  said  Sig- 
nor  Malesto. 

"Why  should  I  turn  over  the  ashes  of  the 
past?  They  are  cold  and  foul,"  the  younger 
man  said. 

"Another  cup,  Master  Guido;  drink,"  said 
Signer  Malesto;  "and  you  need  not  tell  me  of 
the  past,  Messer  Guido.  Think  you  I  do  not 
know  you?  Ah,  it  was  ill-done  of  the  Holy 
Father  to  put  the  ban  upon  a  man  like  you,  the 
Aristotle  of  our  age." 

"You  know  me!"  cried  Guido,  his  pale  face 
flushing. 

"Messer  Guido,  I  heard  your  great  discourse 
upon  the  Pandects  of  Justinian  which  were  dis 
covered  at  Amain*.  I  am  an  ignorant  gentle 
man,  having  neither  Latin  nor  Greek  and 
knowing  nothing  of  the  humanities.  But  that 
was  a  fine  discourse.  I  have  loved  you  ever 
since,"  Signer  Malesto  concluded,  fluttering 
his  jeweled  fingers  and  smiling. 

The  other  man  leaned  across  the  table,  his 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  119 

haggard  face,  framed  in  a  straggling  beard, 
twitching  with  almost  hysterical  excitement. 

"And  you  know  what  came  of  it?"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"Your  book  was  burned  at  Rome,"  said  the 
little  jeweled  man  lightly.  "  'Tis  a  queer  way 
to  answer  an  argument,  that." 

"They  would  not  hear  me,"  Guido  went  on 
with  sudden  impatience.  "When  I  went  to 
Rome  they  would  not  listen.  I  had  said  and 
written  only  the  truth.  Why  would  they  not 
hear  me?" 

"They  did  hear  you,"  his  companion  said, 
always  smiling;  "that  is  the  reason  they  excom 
municated  you.  Tut!  tut!  tut!  my  good 
friend,  never  start  like  that!  The  word  does 
no  harm.  Do  I  fear  it?  If  I  did  would  I  be 
here  at  table  with  you  now?  You  have  been 
priest.  Well,  that  is  over.  You  are  always 
the  great  scholar — the  second  Aristotle." 

Praise  was  sweet  to  this  weak  and  homeless 
man.  Not  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  Signor 
Malesto's  sincerity.  He  felt  that  all  this 
kindly  host  said  was  true.  Banned  by  the  in- 


fallible  curse,  outcast  from  church  and  so 
ciety,  he  was  still  the  wonderful  scholar  who 
had  set  the  Pisan  and  the  Roman  world  astir. 
Guido  felt  that  justice  had  been  done  him,  and 
he  thanked  the  little  jeweled  man.  He  drank 
again.  His  thoughts  slipped  back  on  the  trail 
of  his  lif  e. 

He  had  been  born  in  a  kennel  or  a  gutter,  he 
knew  not  where.  A  Pisan  priest  had  found 
him  wandering  like  a  homeless  dog  in  the 
streets;  then  for  many  years  his  life  had  been 
that  of  the  cloister  and  the  study.  Little  by 
little  the  fame  of  his  learning  got  abroad  in 
Italy.  The  Holy  Father  called  him  to  Rome. 
There  he  had  written  his  masterpiece — this 
book  on  the  laws  of  the  land  which  was  to 
topple  over  injustice  and  make  of  Christ's 
spoken  words  the  new  laws  of  a  new  hu 
manity. 

His  book  had  been  seized  and  burned.  He, 
defrocked  and  excommunicated,  had  barely  es 
caped  with  his  life,  cast  out  to  wander,  roofless, 
masterless,  shunned  by  all.  How  this  great 
evil  had  come  upon  him  he  did  not  know.  He 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  121 

had  studied  and  learned  many  things,  but  he 
had  never  lived.  He  had  gone  shyly  and 
aloofly  through  life.  He  had  never  known  the 
flavor  of  the  fierce  sins  of  his  age.  He  had 
done  no  ill,  if  it  be  not  an  evil  thing  to  study 
and  labor  and  write  the  truth  as  one  sees  it; 
and  here  he  sat,  a  beggar  man,  drinking  an 
other  man's  wine  and  eating  food  another  man 
paid  for  in  a  dingy  tavern  in  Florence. 
Shame  and  gratitude  struggled  within  him  as 
he  looked  up  and  met  the  watchful  eyes  of  his 
new-found  protector. 

"Ah,  master  scholar,"  said  Signer  Malesto, 
"it  is  wonderful  that  one  man  should  know  so 
many  things.  Philosophy,  medicine,  law,  the 
verses  of  Lucretius,  I  dare  say,  not  to  mention 
the  learned  works  of  the  fathers  of  the  Church ; 
and  here  am  I  who  can  hardly  spell  out  a  clerk's 
letter.  And  yet  I  am  rich," — Signor  Malesto 
fumbled  his  glowing  rubies — "while  you've  not 
a  white  piece  of  silver.  'Tis  a  silly  world! 
Now  had  I  the  making  of  it— 

Signor  Malesto  paused. 

"But  you,  my  learned  scholar,  perhaps  you 


122    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

know  who  had  the  making  of  it,"  he  said  wag 
ging  his  head  and  laughing.  "But  hark  you, 
not  every  man  keeps  the  thing  he  has  made. 
One  man  builds  a  house  and  another  man  lives 
in  it." 

With  this  he  laughed  and  crowed  so  merrily 
that  Guido  deemed  there  could  be  no  great  evil 
in  the  words,  though  men  had  been  burned  for 
less,  and,  crossing  himself,  he  made  no  an 
swer. 

"You  cross  yourself,  Master  Guido,  excom 
municated  as  you  are,  what  good  can  come  of 
it?  I  am  an  ignorant  man,  but  you  who  have 
been  a  priest  can  set  me  right." 

"I  know  not,"  said  Guido  gloomily,  for  the 
question  was  one  he  dared  not  face. 

"And  that  is  all  your  learning  leads  to — a 
mere  I  know  not,"  asked  Signor  Malesto  with  a 
mocking  but  friendly  smile.  "Why  'tis  much 
of  a  piece  with  my  own  learning.  And  yet, 
and  yet — " 

He  made  a  fluttering  gesture  with  his  fat, 
white  hands. 

"And  yet,"  said  he,  "I  wish  I  had  your  wis- 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  123 

dom  and  you  had  my  idle  gold.  Knowledge! 
Ah,  to  know  things ! — books  and  lore !  What 
wouldn't  I  give  to  have  your  learning!" 

The  ragged  man  leaned  forward;  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  drunkenness  that  was  not  that  of 
wine — it  was  the  madness  of  one  who  has 
reached  the  frontier  of  good  and  evil.  He 
tried  to  smile  but  his  dry  lips  parted  in  a  snarl 
as  he  said :  "What  would  you  give  ?" 

Now  this  thing  happened:  Guido,  his  el 
bow  on  the  table,  his  eyes  hot  with  impious  fan 
cies,  stared  across  at  Signor  Malesto,  who 
lolled  plumply  in  his  chair,  and  as  he  looked  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Signor  Malesto's  fat  face 
shrank  into  a  lined  and  haggard  visage — a 
mask  of  gray  steel  out  of  which  two  eyes  flamed 
small  and  hard ;  but  even  as  he  stared  at  it  this 
evil  mask  vanished,  and  Signor  Malesto,  ami 
able  and  easeful,  cried  out : 

"Tut!  tut!  I'll  not  bargain  with  you, 
Messer  Guido — not  I.  But  for  all  that  learn 
ing  of  yours  I'll  give  you  good  gold  in  exchange 
— fair  gold  florins  of  our  city  here,  stamped 
with  the  lilies  of  Florence  on  one  side  and  on 


124     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

the  other  with  John  the  Baptist's  head  on  a 
dish.  A  round  fortune,  Messer  Guido,  that 
would  mend  that  ragged  coat  of  yours,  pad 
your  starved  ribs  and  buy  you,  if  you  would, 
the  lands  and  palaces  of  the  Buondelmonti  and 
all  their  enemies — aye,  and  more!  A  fortune 
that  would  buy  you  power  and  love  and  the 
envy  of  others. 

Guido  lifted  the  wine-cup  to  his  parched  lips 
and  stammered : 

"Other  men's  envy  and  power  and  love!" 
His  lean  face  brightened.  In  the  dusk  of 
the  tavern-room  he  saw  &  woman's  imperious 
eyes  shining  upon  him;  thoughts  he  had  never 
known  in  the  cloister  and  had  never  unearthed 
in  moldly  books  quickened  in  his  brain;  the 
thin  blood  in  him  ran  fiery  and  swift,  sweeping 
away  his  old  ideals,  his  old  superstitions,  his  old 
fears.  Fear?  He  had  had  enough  of  fear! 
It  was  night  now  and  his  courage  sang  to  him ; 
impulses  out  of  savage  woodlands,  wherein  sav 
age  men  prowled  with  beasts,  leaped  in  his 
veins;  he  was  a  primeval  man  for  whom  the 
lust  of  power  and  envy  and  love  had  of  a  sud- 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO   125 

den  been  invented.  Grim  and  urgent  he  stood 
up  in  his  rags. 

"And  I  would  barter,"  he  cried,  "all  I  know 
—all  I  learned  in  the  years — let  me  but  live !" 

At  the  shrill  sound  of  his  own  voice  the  ex 
citement  faded  out  of  him.  He  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  fearfully  and  sank  down  in  his 
chair.  Signor  Malesto,  with  a  smile,  looked  at 
the  young  man,  studying  the  haggard  face  and 
the  eyes  that  now  were  furtive  and  fugitive 
as  those  of  a  wood  animal.  Suddenly  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  said:  "I'll  buy." 

"A  bargain,"  said  Guido  with  a  nervous 
laugh.  He  turned  himself  another  cup  of 
wine  and  drank  it  at  a  gulp. 

Signor  Malesto  pushed  a  thick  leathern 
pouch  across  the  table  to  his  guest. 

"You  will  find  the  price  there,"  he  said. 

II 

THERE  were  two  men  in  a  sun-lit  garden. 
One  of  them  lolled  on  a  marble  bench  near  the 
fountain,  playing  with  the  rings  on  his  white, 
fat  hands  and  listening  indifferently  to  his  com- 


126     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

panion,  who  walked  the  garden  to  and  fro,  talk 
ing  angrily.  The  latter  was  a  stalwart,  effi 
cient-looking  man.  In  spite  of  his  yellow 
curls,  too  long  for  the  fashion  of  the  hour,  and 
his  fanciful  effeminate  dress,  there  was  a  mas 
terful  air  about  him  that  showed  his  use  of  war 
fare.  Indeed,  in  that  day  no  one  in  Florence 
cared  much  to  face  his  sword,  for  he  was  Fari- 
nata  degli  Uberti,  and  only  a  fortnight  had 
gone  by  since  he  killed  Buondelmonti,  his 
enemy,  and  called  half  Florence  to  arms.  A 
bold,  honorable  and  reckless  man,  this  Uberti ; 
men  feared  his  sword  as  women  feared  his  love. 
As  he  walked  the  sun-lit  garden  up  and  down 
he  was  saying : 

"But  'tis  not  a  man's  name,  Malesto!  I  tell 
you  he  is  an  impostor!  Cascioli — is  that  a 
man's  name?  I  tell  you  it  is  the  name  of  a 
battle.  'Twas  in  my  grandfather's  time,  dur 
ing  the  reign  of  the  old  Countess  Mathildis. 
There  was  a  battle  of  Cascioli,  and  we  defeated 
the  imperial  vicar  and  his  knights.  Who  the 
devil  is  this  Cascioli?  Surely  you  know,  Ma 
lesto?" 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  127 

"I  know  what  all  the  world  knows,"  said  the 
suave  little  man,  curling  his  legs  up  on  the 
marble  bench  and  taking  his  ease.  "He  calls 
himself  Guido  degli  Cascioli  and  he  came  to 
Florence  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Aye,  and  old  Gian,  the  tavern-keeper,  says 
he  came  ragged  and  foul,  with  neither  horse  nor 
man,"  Uberti  shouted.  "Devil  take  him! 
Now  he  rides  abroad  with  twenty  gentlemen  at 
his  heels." 

Malesto  grinned.  "I  should  hardly  say  he 
rides,"  said  he,  "for  he  straddles  his  horse  as 
though  it  were  a  barber's  bench.  But  as  for  his 
foul  clothes — tut!  tut!  He  may  have  come 
from  afar  and  fallen  among  robbers.  That 
may  happen  to  any  man,  Uberti.  And  he  soon 
bettered  his  dress  and  filled  again  his  purse. 
Now  I  ask  you,  dear  friend,  could  he  have  done 
that  had  he  not  been  a  man  of  substance  and 
credit?" 

"I  do  not  like  these  interlopers,"  said  the  sol 
dier  stoutly.  "We  want  none  of  them  in  Flor 
ence." 

"I'm  not  Florence-born,"  said  Malesto,  smil- 


128     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

ing  up  at  Uberti  with  lazy  mockery,  "although 
since  I've  known  you  I  feel  at  home  here." 

"Though  you  be  not  Florentine,  you  are  a 
man  of  race  and  blood,"  said  Uberti. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Malesto  quietly,  "I  am  of 
an  ancient  house  and  no  interloper.  Eut  this 
Guido  degli  Cascioli,  who  sweats  gold  from 
every  pore  of  his  skin — you  call  him  an  inter 
loper?  Now  may  the  devil  send  us  a  score 
like  him!  And  why  should  you  care  whence 
he  comes,  from  a  battle-field  or  a  kennel.  He 
is  a  lad  of  mettle — yellow  metal." 

"He!  a  lean  rogue  who  cannot  sit  a  horse. 
He  has  the  hang-dog  air.  Were  it  not  that  he 
has  neither  Greek  nor  Latin  nor  good  fair 
Italian,  I  would  say  (I  hope  'tis  no  sin)  that  he 
had  the  look  of  a  broken  priest.  And  he  is  to 
flaunt  it  in  Florence  and  shame  us  with  his 
raw  wealth.  I  wonder  if  the  rogue  can  hold 
a  sword,"  and  Uberti,  the  best  swordsman 
of  his  day,  laughed  and  patted  the  hilt  of  his 
weapon. 

"Cascioli?  Why  should  he  fight?"  Malesto 
asked.  "Think  you  it  is  for  nothing  he  rides 


abroad  with  twenty  swordsmen  at  his  heels? 
You  are  no  philosopher,  Uberti.  What  are 
Cascioli's  lordship  and  name  to  you?  As  for 
his  Latin — I  did  not  know  you  had  much  your 
self.  And  if  he  talk  not  like  a  Florentine  and 
walk  with  a  hang-dog  air,  why  I  daresay  it  is 
the  fashion  of  his  country." 

"His  sword  hangs  at  his  thigh  like  a  distaff." 

"The  fashion  of  his  country,"  Malesto  said 
again  and  always  he  sprawled  easeful  and  list 
less,  twiddling  his  rubies. 

"They  say  he  has  bought  the  palace  of  the 
Buondelmonti,"  the  soldier  growled.  "Now 
this  is  a  shame  to  Florence." 

"I  am  glad  you  love  your  enemies,"  the  little 
jeweled  man  sneered,  sitting  up  and  nursing 
his  plump  leg.  "The  priests  advise  it." 

"The  Buondelmontis  are  my  enemies,  yes," 
Uberti  said,  "and  their  blood  is  only  a  fortnight 
old  on  my  sword ;  but  I've  a  mind  to  do  them  a 
good  turn  and  rid  them  of  this  adventuring 
rogue  who  would  stable  his  painted  girls  in 
their  palace." 

"That  would  be  a  good  deed  and  the  part  of 


130     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

a  Christian,"  Malesto  said  softly;  "and  indeed, 
dear  friend,  it  is  a  shame  to  the  gentlemen  of 
Florence  that  he  should  have  been  able  to  buy 
the  Maddalena  from  them  all.  But  these 
women — what  says  the  Holy.  Book? — they 
have  impudent  faces  and  their  feet  abide  not  in 
the  house.  A  pretty  woman,  this  Maddalena, 
though  I  like  not  these  Venetians  with  red  hair. 
You  were  the  last,  were  you  not,  Uberti,  be 
fore  this  golden  lord  came  to  Florence,  in  rags 
as  you  say,  and  took  her?" 

All  these  things  Signer  Malesto  said  mus 
ingly,  as  one  who  cares  not  whether  he  is  over 
heard  or  not,  but  speaks  to  himself;  yet  there 
must  have  been  something  wicked  in  the  words, 
for  Uberti  started  like  a  horse  stung  with  the 
spur.  For  a  moment  he  fretted  his  sword  in  its 
scabbard,  then  he  laughed  shamefacedly  and 
swore  by  his  saint  and  answered  shortly:  "Do 
you  think  I'd  fight  for  her?" 

"Why  not?"  Signer  Malesto  asked.  "Why 
not  fight  for  her?  If  a  man  jostles  you  in  the 
street  you  will  fight  him  for  it.  If  one  lames 
your  greyhound  you'll  run  him  through  for  it. 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  131 

And  to  be  robbed  of  Maddalena  and  not  fight 
for  that — well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  We  all 
have  different  ideals  of  honor." 

Uberti  came  close  and  put  his  foot  on  the 
marble  bench.  He  looked  down  at  Signer  Ma- 
lesto  with  blazing  eyes. 

"Honor?"  he  said,  "now  by  my  saint  I 
thought  I  had  too  much  honor  to  fight  a  name 
less  adventurer  for  a  woman  like  Maddalena. 
If  I  loved  her — "  he  added. 

"Xo  one  doubts  your  courage,  Uberti,"  Sig- 
nor  Malesto  said  suavely,  getting  to  his  feet, 
"but  of  course  the  world  will  talk.  Our  wicked 
friends  will  always  crack  their  wicked  jests. 
But  you  are  right.  She  is  only  a  woman,  this 
Maddalena,  and  since  you  do  not  love  her,  it 
would  be  foolish  to  risk  your  skin  merely  to 
stop  the  laughter  of  Florence." 

Had  Signor  Malesto  been  wickedly  inclined, 
had  he  wished  to  bring  about  a  quarrel  between 
the  young  soldier  and  Messer  Guido  Cascioli, 
he  could  have  chosen  no  apter  words.  Uberti 
stared  at  him  a  moment  in  angry  perplexity. 
He  was  a  gentleman  and  a  loyal  man;  he  was 


brave  and  true  and  simple ;  but  the  fashionable 
honor  of  his  day  was  a  dear  thing  to  him,  and 
moreover  he  could  express  himself  better  with 
his  sword  than  with  words;  so  when  he  had 
gathered  at  last  Signor  Malesto's  meaning,  he 
felt  as  though  all  Florence  were  mocking  him 
for  an  unworthy  deed.  This  Maddalena? 
Yes,  for  a  little  while  he  had  owned  her  kisses. 
It  had  been  idly  done,  as  a  young  man  ties  a 
ribbon  to  his  sword-hilt  and  swaggers  abroad 
with  it.  That  was  all.  He  was  not  at  all  dis 
pleased  that  this  adventuring  rogue  who  had 
come  scattering  his  gold  over  Florence  should 
have  bought  her — as  he  had  bought  his  body 
guard  of  hectoring  swordsmen.  But  if  men 
said  he,  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  feared — if  Flor 
ence  laughed — 

He  went  red  then  white  with  anger. 

Signor  Malesto  touched  him  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

"It  is  only  the  gossip  of  an  hour,"  he  said. 
"People  will  forget  it.  A  man  like  you  need 
not  care  for  the  idle  jests  of  a  moment." 

"I  will  give  them  something  else  to  gossip 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  133 

about,"  said  Uberti  grimly.     "This  Cascioli— 
where  is  he?" 

"One  need  but  ask  for  Maddalena,"  Signer 
Malesto  answered,  smiling  and  twisting  his 
rings. 

"You  shall  carry  my  message  to  him,"  said 
Uberti,  flinging  out  of  the  garden  and  hurrying 
down  the  steep  street  that  led  to  Florence. 
"You  shall  take  it  at  once.  Come,  Malesto." 

Ill 

THE  day  was  nearly  done.  It  had  been  an 
autumnal  day,  bright  with  afternoon  sunlight. 
Now  the  shadows  were  creeping  round  the  old 
palace  of  the  Buondelmonti,  and  the  light  that 
entered  the  narrow  windows  was  faint  and 
broken. 

In  the  great  hall,  on  the  first  floor,  the  lamps 
and  wax  candles  were  flaring  joj^ously  over 
white,  sprawling  women  and  men  who  shouted 
to  each  other  as  they  drank  their  wine.  The 
red-haired  woman  whom  all  Florence  called 
Maddalena  lay  on  a  couch  of  water-colored 
velvet,  laughing.  She  had  reason  to  laugh, 


134    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

this  girl  who  was  then  too  beautiful,  for  in  a 
fortnight,  by  the  mere  expenditure  of  kisses, 
she  had  gained  a  palace  and  a  fortune  in  gold 
florins,  lily-stamped.  Round  her  throat  there 
was  a  triple  band  of  pearls,  and  somehow  or 
other  the  warmth  of  her  body  seemed  to  color 
them  with  strange  fires ;  the  pearl  bands  round 
her  neck  glowed  and  shifted  their  colors  like 
lizards  on  a  sun-stained  wall.  Her  dress  was 
clinging  and  small.  In  color  it  was  a  green  so 
pale  it  might  have  been  silver.  So  Maddalena 
was  very  beautiful  as  she  lay  there,  all  her  mus 
cles  relaxed,  laughing.  They  were  talking  of 
her  lover ;  always  Maddalena  laughed  and  fin 
gered  the  pearls  at  her  throat. 

In  the  room  above,  where  the  dying  day  fell 
slantingly  through  the  narrow  window,  this 
man  who  was  her  lover  brooded  in  a  great 
wooden  chair.  In  spite  of  the  gems  and  silks 
upon  him,  he  was  an  abject  figure  of  a  man, 
lean  and  haggard  and  frightened.  He  bit  at 
his  finger-nails  as  he  sat  there  in  the  dusk  of  the 
room.  Then  for  a  little  while  he  drummed  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair.  His  lungs  hurt  him  and 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  135 

he  wanted  to  cough,  but  dared  not.  Somehow 
or  other  there  was  a  cold  dread  about  him;  it 
was  not  exactly  fear — it  was  dread.  Now 
whether  he  dreaded  life,  or  what  comes  after 
life,  he  did  not  know.  Slowly  the  dusk  in  the 
room  deepened  into  darkness.  He  could  see 
only  the  small,  narrow  window  whence  a  little 
light  entered  the  room.  It  was  cold  and  he 
shivered.  From  below  he  heard  the  laughter 
of  men  and  women  and  their  boisterous  com 
mands  to  the  servants;  once  he  heard  Madda- 
lena's  voice,  clamorous  and  merry. 

"God!"  he  said  and  crossed  himself. 

You  will  understand  that  this  lean  and  hag 
gard  man,  sitting  in  a  dusky  chamber,  crossed 
himself  and  said :  "God !  O  God !" 

Now  it  is  quite  true  that  this  may  happen  to 
any  one. 

Sometimes  in  the  years  we  have  all  sat  in 
dark  rooms  and  called  upon  Him  who  sleeps  by 
the  camp  fire  of  which  the  stars  are  the  flicker 
ing  sparks.  We  have  called  to  Him  in  the 
night ;  sometimes  He  has  been  abroad  on  other 
business;  sometimes  He  has  answered  us. 


136     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Both  you  and  I  know  what  it  is  to  cry  out  of  the 
dark  to  the  God  we  need.  But  with  Guido, 
who  had  called  himself  Guido  degli  Cascioli,  it 
was  another  matter.  He  thought  that  God 
would  never  answer  him.  Fear  racked  him. 
He  was  afraid  of  God,  this  man  who  sat  there 
in  the  darkening  room  of  the  old  palace  which 
looked  out  on  the  Condotta,  for  he  feared  he 
could  not  repent.  He  looked  back  over  the 
sins  of  his  life.  They  had  been  so  insignificant. 
He  had  tried  to  live  straight  and  true.  Per 
haps  when  he  was  a  vagrant  child  in  the  gutter, 
searching  slyly  for  food,  he  had  sinned ;  that  he 
did  not  remember ;  the  life  he  knew  began  when 
the  old  priest  had  picked  him  out  of  the  slime 
and  given  him  food  and  books.  And  then? 
Then  the  cloister  and  the  study ;  the  discourses 
he  had  made,  the  books  he  had  written,  the 
curse  that  had  sent  him,  outcast  and  lost,  to 
wander  in  the  world ;  and  Maddalena?  He  re 
membered  her  eyes — the  colorful  temptation  in 
her  eyes.  (Sometimes  she  would  draw  his 
head  down  to  hers  and  loosen  all  the  wanton 
glory  of  her  red  hair  and  shade  their  faces  in  it 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  137 

as  in  a  tent.  It  was  very  wonderful  to  kiss  her 
there  in  the  perfumed  shadow  of  that  tent ;  and 
this  he  remembered  as  he  sat  there  in  the  dusky 
room  cold  with  fear. ) 

But  was  this  a  sin  of  which  he  could  repent? 

When  he  thought  of  Maddalena  and  her 
kisses  he  was  convinced  that  sin  had  never  been 
invented. 

"It  is  not  a  sin  to  love  her,"  he  whispered, 
crouching  in  the  wooden  chair  in  the  dark  room. 
"Love  is  not  a  sin.  God  is  mistaken." 

Then  of  a  sudden  a  swift  fear  struck  at  his 
heart  and  at  his  mind;  the  old  cold  dread  came 
upon  him.  He  glanced  down,  and  the  silk  of 
his  dress  and  the  gems  of  his  sword-hilt  mocked 
him.  His  thought  went  back  to  Malesto  and 
the  bargain  he  had  made  with  him.  All  this 
life  of  his  and  all  this  love  of  his  was  a  lie  and 
based  on  a  lie.  Who  was  Maksto  and  what 
was  his  gold?  Was  it  not  devil's  gold,  that 
when  the  dream  was  over  would  be  but  wasted 
autumnal  leaves?  And  Maddalena's  kisses- 
were  they  real?  Was  it  not  all  a  trick  of  the 
devil  to  cheat  him? 


138    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Guido  stood  up  in  the  dark  room.  He  could 
feel  the  life  in  his  body.  No,  it  was  not  a  lie ; 
the  tent  of  wanton  hair  that  Maddalena  spread 
over  his  face  when  she  kissed  him  was  not  a  lie 
—no!  And  with  that  he  brought  his  hand 
down  sharply  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  The 
gems  and  the  crude-cut  gold  of  it  hurt  his  hand. 
This  physical  pain  was  an  antiseptic  to  thought. 

Suddenly —  Now,  suddenly  Guido  remem 
bered  that  he  must  face  a  danger  in  which  the 
twenty  bravos  whom  he  had  hired  to  ride  at  his 
heels  could  not  help  him  at  all.  The  old  fear 
drew  round  him,  close  and  chill  as  the  air  of  a 
cellar  underground  into  which  one  walks  from 
the  sunlight.  He  sank  down  again  into  the 
wooden  chair,  shivering.  Again  he  began  to 
beat  vague  marches  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  for 
the  fear  that  was  on  him  now  was  physical — 
the  fear  of  the  naked  sword.  He  set  his  teeth 
and  said :  "I  will  not  fight  Uberti — I  will  not ! 
He  is  a  coward  to  ask  me  to  fight  him — I  will 
not!" 

From  the  great  hall  below  there  came  to  him 
the  sound  of  laughter  and  merry  words.  It 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  139 

was  in  the  great  hall  that  Maddalena  sat  with 
gaming  men  and  kissing  girls. 

Drooping  with  fear  and  shame,  the  man 
Guido,  who  had  once  been  a  priest,  hid  his  face 
in  his  silken  sleeve. 

"I  cannot  live  this  life,"  he  said  aloud,  "I 
cannot." 

"Why  not  live  it?  It  is  merely  a  matter  of 
habit." 

Guido  lifted  his  head.  For  a  moment  he 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  some  one  had  really 
spoken  or  whether  he  had  imagined  the  voice 
and  the  words.  Signor  Malesto  stood  by  his 
chair,  smiling,  easeful,  jeweled,  as  he  always 
was. 

"Is  it  you?"  Guido  cried — "you'?  I  did  not 
hear  you  at  the  door.  Indeed,  the  door  is 
locked  fast." 

"Doors  and  keys  and  locks!"  said  Signor 
Malesto.  He  was  a  droll  little  man  in  tawny 
clothes,  and  he  glowed  with  rubies.  "And  you 
think  they  can  keep  me  out  when  I  wish  to 
serve  a  friend?" 

Although  he  did  not  know  how  Signor  Ma- 


lesto  had  entered  the  room,  and  although  he  did 
not  like  him,  yet  Messer  Guido  gathered  com 
fort  and  help  from  his  mere  presence. 

"But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  hectoring 
swordsman?"  he  asked  fretfully.  "What 
quarrel  has  Uberti  with  me?" 

"Quarrel?"  Malesto  repeated  softly. 
"Why,  'tis  a  gentleman's  quarrel.  He  does 
not  like  you — does  not  like  the  color  of  your 
doublet  or  the  shape  of  your  chin,  or,"  and 
Malesto  halted,  "he  likes  Maddalena  too 
much." 

His  enemy  was  not  near.  In  the  dusk  of  the 
night  and  the  companionship  of  Malesto, 
Guido  found  a  sort  of  hectic  courage  and  as 
well  hatred  for  this  Uberti,  who  had  braved 
him.  He  said:  "Now  curse  this  man,  and  if  it 
is  his  life  or  mine  I  will  kill  him!" 

"Brave  lad!"  said  Malesto  mockingly. 
"And  with  what  will  you  kill  him!  With  yon 
der  toy  of  a  gilt  sword  that  dangles  at  your 
side?  Come,  now,  Messer  priest,  have  you 
ever  drawn  sword  in  your  life?  And  Uberti  is 
the  best  swordsman  in  Tuscany.  He  would 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  141 

make  but  two  passes — one  across  your  face  for 
his  mark  and  the  second  through  your  heart. 
Then  he  would  wipe  clean  his  sword  and  come 
blithely  here  to  Maddalena.  Tut !  man,  never 
talk  of  swords  till  you  can  use  one." 

"With  my  hands  I  will  kill  him!"  Guido 
cried  with  hysterical  rage ;  but  even  as  he  thrust 
out  his  arms  in  a  savage  gesture  a  cough  took 
him,  and  when  it  passed  he  was  weak  and  a 
cold  sweat  was  on  him. 

"You've  a  brave  heart,  but  a  poor  wit, 
Master  priest,"  Signor  Malesto  said  more  seri 
ously,  "but  I'm  not  one  to  go  back  on  a  friend 
in  need.  You  must  fight  the  Uberti  and  yet 
you  cannot  fight.  Look  you,  I  was  always  a 
helpful  man.  I  have  a  sword  here  that  even 
in  a  hand  so  weak  and  unskilled  as  yours  car 
ries  death  at  its  point." 

Signor  Malesto  drew  his  sword  and  laid  it  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"It  will  kill,"  he  said,  "of  its  own  good  will 
it  can  kill;  no  one  can  stand  in  front  of  it  and 
live.  Take  it,  Master  Guido ;  you  shall  pay  me 
another  time." 


142     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Guido  took  the  sword ;  the  hilt  of  it  fitted  his 
grasp  as  though  it  had  been  the  little  hand  of  a 
woman. 

"You  shall  pay  me  another  time,"  said  Ma- 
lesto.  "Sign  but  this  acknowledgment  of  your 
debt — write  here  your  name." 

"Write  my  name,"  said  Guido.  "But  I 
can  no  longer  write.  You  best  know  that,  Sig- 
nor  Malesto." 

Yet  he  took  the  tablet  from  Signor  Malesto's 
hand,  and  as  he  did  so  the  blood  jetted  from  his 
wrist. 

"Awkward  lad!  Did  you  not  see  the  pen 
knife  hanging  to  the  tablet  ?  You've  cut  your 
wrist;  luckily  a  mere  scratch,"  said  Signor 
Malesto,  probing  the  wound  with  the  tip  of  an 
ivory  pen,  "and  the  blood  will  serve  for  ink. 
Now  make  a  mark  here — not  that,  not  a  cross 
—no,  my  friend;  a  circle,  like  that — so,"  said 
Signor  Malesto. 

Guido  did  as  he  was  bid  heedlessly;  he  was 
thinking  of  Uberti.  But  Signor  Malesto  gave 
a  little  cry  of  triumph  and  fluttered  his  fingers 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  143 

in  the  air.  His  eyes,  usually  black  and  dull, 
flamed  with  light. 

"It  will  kill?"  asked  Guido,  weighing  the 
sword. 

"Have  no  fear.  What  your  heart  bids  it  do 
it  will  do,"  said  Signer  Malesto.  He  went  to 
the  door  and  shot  the  bolt. 

"Come,"  he  added,  "come  now,  Master 
Guido;  the  other  waits  for  us." 

As  they  went  swiftly  down  the  stairs  Guido 
heard  the  laughter  in  the  great  hall  and  the 
voice  of  Maddalena  singing,  but  he  did  not 
pause.  Something — and  whether  this  was 
Signer  Malesto  or  the  sword  he  did  not  know 
— was  guiding  him  to  his  enemy.  They 
crossed  three  streets  and  came  out  upon  the 
Arno.  The  river  in  this  autumnal  time  had 
shrunk  to  a  mere  yellow  ribbon  of  water.  On 
the  broad  sands  Guido  saw  a  man  pacing  to 
and  fro.  Even  in  the  dusk  he  knew  him. 
Hate  and  fear  did  so  tug  at  him  that  he  knew 
this  could  be  no  other  than  Uberti,  and  casting 
off  his  cloak  he  ran  at  him,  sword  in  hand,  with 


144    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

all  a  coward's  eagerness  to  kill.  There  were 
words  on  his  lips  as  he  ran.  He  stammered 
"Villain!"  and  other  names  so  foul  he  knew  not 
whence  they  came;  and  "Draw,  Villain!"  he 
cried  and  spat  on  the  ground.  The  face  of 
Uberti  hardened  into  white  anger. 

"Fool,"  he  said,  "but  have  your  way.  I 
strike  but  twice — once  to  set  my  mark  on  you 
—and  again  to  kill." 

"I  strike  but  once,"  shouted  Guido,  and  their 
swords  crossed. 

Now,  it  was  even  as  Guido  said,  for  his  sword 
went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  man  he  feared 
— went  swift  and  implacable  like  a  living  thing 
to  Uberti's  heart;  and  this  one  shuddered  and 
fell  dead,  a  look  of  amazement  more  than  pain 
upon  his  face.  Guido  threw  the  sword  down 
on  the  sand.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  thing 
twisted  there  like  a  snake.  Then  he  looked  at 
the  dead  man  and  gasped,  feeling  a  pain  rack 
ing  at  his  side.  Signor  Malesto  stooped  and 
picked  up  the  sword.  Perhaps  the  scene  had 
shocked  him,  for  his  face  was  no  longer  plump 
and  amiable ;  it  had  shriveled  into  a  lean  mask. 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  145 

There  was  something  dark  and  malign  about 
him ;  something  mocking  and  obscene  in  the 
haggard  face  and  blazing  eyes,  and  as  he  came 
toward  Guido  he  limped  a  little. 

Then  the  great  fear  which  is  the  fear  of 
death  fell  upon  Guido,  and  he  turned  and  ran 
swiftly,  and  as  he  ran  he  babbled  old  priestly 
words  in  Latin.  "Retro  Sathanas!"  he  cried. 
He  fled  he  know  not  whither.  A  narrow,  dark 
lane ;  then  he  came  out  upon  the  market  of  the 
Mercato  Vecchio,  at  the  corner  where  the 
bronze  devil  guards  the  palace  Cavolaio.  He 
paused  to  take  breath;  a  fit  of  coughing 
strangled  him ;  he  went  on  feebly. 

"This  must  be  the  end  of  it,"  he  said  softly. 

Xow  saying  these  words  the  ragged  man 
glanced  at  the  squat  bronze  devil  that  guards 
the  Cavolaio  palace.  The  broken  priest  looked 
at  the  leering  thing  of  bronze,  and  a  great 
temptation  came  upon  him.  Well  he  knew 
what  the  devil  does  for  his  own !  Now,  should 
he,  Guido,  the  priest  and  scholar,  call  upon  the 
devil,  would  he  not  give  him  all  the  joys  of 
life? 


146     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

The  great  temptation  rocked  in  his  mind. 

Then,  mark  you ;  a  strange  thing :  at  that  mo 
ment  he  heard  voices,  the  clangor  of  steel, 
laughter  and  the  noise  of  little  sandals  on  the 
stone  flags.  A  woman's  voice  said:  "Do  you 
love  me,  Uberti?"  "Unto  death,"  a  man's 
voice  answered  lightly. 

Then  into  the  lane  of  light  shed  by  the  Ma 
donna's  lamp  came  three  people.  One  was  a 
serving-man  in  armor.  Then  came  Uberti,  his 
cloak  about  his  face,  so  one  could  see  only  his 
yellow  hair  and  the  love-knot  in  his  cap.  With 
him  the  woman.  She  was  tall,  lissome,  young ; 
she  was  beautiful — the  dying  wretch  there  by 
the  house  wall  saw  that  she  was  beautiful;  he 
saw  the  beauty  in  her  eyes  and  the  beauty  in  her 
wanton  red  hair. 

The  door  of  the  narrow  house  was  opened  to 
these  people,  but  the  wanton-haired  woman 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  and 
glanced  down  at  the  ragged  figure  by  the  wall. 
Her  eyes  met  his,  and  then  with  a  little  laugh 
she  entered  the  house. 

Always  the  bell  rang  somewhere :  the  sound 


THE  SOUL  OF  MESSER  GUIDO  147 

of  the  bell  like  some  slow-winged  bird  drifted 
over  Florence;  eight,  nine— 

The  dying  man  reeled;  then  he  fell.  His 
breath  came  in  short  gasps ;  he  moved  one  feeble 
hand,  as  though  he  would  say  "Retro  Sath- 
anas" — feebly.  The  light  of  the  Madonna's 
lamp  was  in  his  eyes.  The  Madonna  looked 
down  upon  him  and  she  was  neither  aloof  nor 
cold. 

"Ave — ave,"  the  dying  man  whispered,  "ave 
Maria — clara — purissima — 

Saying  this  he  died;  ten — the  last  stroke  of 
the  bell ;  it  was  ten  of  the  clock  in  Florence. 

When  day  came  they  found  him  dead  there. 
He  was  a  broken  priest  and  a  man  of  no  signifi 
cance,  so  they  buried  him  in  a  ditch  and 
thanked  God  that  the  scandal  of  his  life  was 
ended. 

Over  the  Mercato  Vecchio  the  sunlight  fell, 
flattering  the  gilt  attire  of  the  Madonna  and 
shining  on  the  bronze  devil  of  the  Cavolaio. 


THE  KING  OF  SCOTLAND'S 
DAUGHTER 


V 

THE   KING   OF   SCOTLAND'S   DAUGHTER 
I 

WHEN  with  his  own  hand  King  James 
stabbed  to  death  the  Douglas  in  the  small  cham 
ber  of  Stirling  Castle,  I  fled  oversea  with  what 
speed  I  could,  for  Scotland  was  no  home  for 
me.  In  those  days  there  was  little  truth  in  the 
proud  saying  that  none  might  touch  a  Douglas 
or  a  Douglas'  man  without  coming  by  the  waur. 
With  the  murder  in  Stirling  Castle  came  the 
downfall  of  that  branch  of  the  house  of  Doug 
las  to  which  I  was  sib.  Within  three  years  the 
earldom  was  dead  and  Lord  James,  who  might 
have  propped  up  his  house,  was  a  mumbling, 
shaven  monk  in  Lindores  Abbey. 

It  was  well  I  stayed  not  for  kiss  of  sweet 
heart  or  the  stuffing  of  a  purse,  for  those  who 
were  sent  to  take  me  made  short  shrift  of  the 

151 


152     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Douglas'  men;  indeed,  my  fellow,  Robert  of 
Liddesdale  was  cut  down  in  the  streets  before 
he  could  draw  sword  or  cry  God's  name.  I 
was  not  near  in  blood  to  the  Douglas,  but  being 
a  clerk  I  stood  closer  to  him  than  others.  Thus 
I  knew  many  things  it  were  better  no  man 
should  know,  and  had  they  laid  hands  on  me 
my  life  had  not  been  worth  an  av e. 

It  was  my  purpose  to  make  my  way  into 
Burgundy,  for  it  was  rumored  that  Charles,  the 
young  lord,  was  gathering  troops  to  make  war 
on  his  father,  Duke  Philip,  who  was  slightingly 
called  the  Good.  But  this  came  to  naught  and 
Charles  sulked  in  the  Low  Countries.  I 
pushed  on,  however,  toward  Burgundy,  for  I 
have  always  held  that  what  I  set  out  to  do  is 
worth  doing  to  the  end. 

I  have  often  wondered  in  these  later  years, 
when  I  have  had  time  and  liking  for  reflection, 
why  I  did  not  make  use  of  my  scholarship,  for 
I  was  a  good  Latinist  and  able  in  the  French 
tongue.  Withal  I  wrote  a  clerkly  hand  and 
had  a  pleasant  voice.  At  the  expense  of  a 
shaven  pate  I  might  have  had  comfort  and  an 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     153 

easeful  life,  and  gained,  moreover,  the  salva 
tion  of  my  soul.  I  was  but  twenty  years  of 
age,  however,  in  that  hard  year  when  I  fled 
from  Scotland.  There  was  a  strain  of  hot 
blood  in  me,  too,  which  did  not  much  incline  me 
to  prayer.  Even  as  a  boy  I  was  fonder  of 
sword-play  than  the  moral  redes  of  Dionysius 
Cato  or  the  logic  of  Okam. 

It  was  no  small  pleasure  to  find  myself  foot- 
free  in  the  world,  landless  and  masterless,  to 
ride  forth  where  I  would.  Though  I  had  but 
few  crowns  in  my  purse,  yet  I  carried  a  good 
sword  and  rode  a  stout  Flanders  mare,  and  had 
little  fear  of  the  present  or  dread  of  the  future. 
Even  then  I  was  a  big  man,  strong  in  the  arms 
and  a  cold  fighter.  As  I  rode  along  I  dreamed 
right  pleasantly  of  the  renown  I  should  win  in 
the  wars  of  Burgundy.  And  this  pleasant 
dreaming  I  have  often  held  was  my  undoing. 
My  great  misfortune — though  it  led  to  good 
fortune — befell  me  in  this  wise : 

The  highway  that  comes  into  Poitiers  runs 
steeply  down  a  hill,  and  that  morning,  it  being 
late  in  the  year  and  rainful,  this  road  was 


154    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

heavy  with  mire.  I  was  riding  down  this  road, 
dreamfully  and  heedlessly,  with  loose  rein, 
when  a  villain  started  up  by  the  wayside  and 
wailed  or  cried  something  to  me.  The  great 
Flanders  mare  I  bestrid  reared  back  fearfully, 
floundered  a  space  and  then  went  down  on  her 
neck  as  you  have  seen  a  struck  bullock  fall.  I 
had  thrown  myself  out  of  the  saddle  as  she  fell, 
and  I  dragged  at  her  by  the  bridle  to  get  her  to 
her  feet.  She  was  even  then  as  good  as  dead, 
for  the  blood  ran  from  her  ears  and  nostrils 
and  bubbled  from  her  mouth.  I  have  always 
thought  the  cord  of  life  (which  runs  through 
the  necks  of  beasts  as  of  men)  had  snapped 
from  the  weight  of  her  fall.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  poor  beast  was  dead,  and  I  stood  there,  in 
sorry  plight,  staring  at  her  limp  carcass.  Had 
the  bark  which  carried  Caesar's  fortunes  come 
to  wreck,  so  might  he  have  stared. 

Him  whom  I  have  called  a  villain  lounged 
near  by  with  a  sort  of  grin,  though  not  ill-na 
tured,  on  his  dirty,  black-bearded  face.  When 
I  thought  of  the  evil  he  had  done  me,  the  grin 
on  his  face  irked  me  and  I  plucked  out  my 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     155 

sword.  The  villain,  who  watched  me  nar 
rowly,  skipped  nimbly  away,  and  cumbered  in 
my  great  boots  I  could  not  follow.  When  he 
had  put  a  ditch  between  us  he  made  me  a  very 
low  bow  and  said: 

"Quid  fit,  Domine,  quid  agitur?" 

Somehow  it  pleased  me  to  learn  he  was 
clerkly  and  no  common  knave,  so  I  put  up  my 
sword. 

"Cur  curris?"  I  said  grimly,  but  not  un 
kindly. 

"Heus,  heus,"  said  the  fellow  smartly 
enough.  "Cur  leus,  ut  aiunt,  prae  canibus." 

I  laughed  outright,  for  indeed  he  had 
skipped  like  a  hare.  When  he  heard  my  laugh 
ter  he  came  back  readily  and  stooped  and 
twitched  my  mare's  eyelids. 

In  all  my  life  I  had  never  seen  so  complete  a 
rascal  as  this  fellow  seemed  to  be  as  he  stood 
there,  lazily  kicking  the  belly  of  my  dead  mare. 
From  head  to  toe  he  was  in  rags,  and  he 
looked  none  the  smarter  for  the  dirty  cloak 
that  swung  jauntily  from  his  left  shoulder. 
He  carried  no  sword,  though  there  was  a  short 


156    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

stick  in  his  hand.  He  had  plentiful  black  hair 
and  a  thick  black  beard.  In  his  dirt  and  his 
rags  and  his  leanness  he  might  have  moved  an 
older  traveler  than  I  was  to  pity. 

Withal  his  face  was  so  bold  and  merry  and 
wicked  that  a  young  man  could  but  like  it. 

"What's  your  name,  fellow?"  I  said. 

"I'm  a  poor  scholar,  my  lord,"  said  he,  grin 
ning. 

"And  what  business  has  a  poor  scholar  on 
the  King's  highway  frightening  good  horses  to 
death?"  I  asked. 

The  fellow  laughed. 

"The  highway  is  my  room  of  state,"  said  he. 
"It  is  my  great  chamber  and  my  small  cham 
ber — par  Dieu!  It  is  my  castle  and  my  walled 
town.  Seigneur,  I  am  Dimanche-le-loup,  but 
my  friends — I  make  you  one  of  my  friends- 
call  me  Bar-sur-Aube.  I  am  a  gentleman,  my 
lord,  like  yourself.  My  titles  are  all  inscribed 
in  the  Liber  Vagatorum." 

With  that  he  laughed,  hunched  up  his  ragged 
cloak  and  again  kicked  idly  at  the  dead  mare. 
The  action  did  not  please  me  much,  and  I  bade 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     157 

him  strip  off  the  bridle  while  I  undid  the  girths 
of  the  saddle.  The  saddle  was  heavy  and  I 
was  minded  to  make  the  fellow  carry  it,  until  I 
bethought  me  that  my  money  was  in  the  flap,  so 
I  threw  it  on  my  shoulder  and  bade  him  lead  on 
into  the  town. 

The  villain,  or,  to  give  him  his  name  of  a 
rogue,  Bar-sur-Aube,  led  me  through  a  tangle 
of  streets  to  an  inn  which  bore  for  sign  a  cul- 
verin,  the  new  invention  of  Master  John 
Bureau,  the  great  engineer.  There  was  a 
small  fire  in  the  inn  chamber,  by  which  Bar-sur- 
Aube,  having  drunk  at  my  cost,  lay  down  and 
warmed  himself  into  sleep.  The  ragged 
knave ! 

"Here,"  thought  I,  "I  am  in  pretty  com 
pany!" 

I  bethought  me  who  I  was  and  who  I  had 
been — no  mean  person  if  I  had  my  own  in 
Scotland  and  the  black  Stuart  were  not  on  the 
throne. 

"And  here  I  sit,"  I  thought,  "in  a  dirty 
tavern  with  a  knave  for  fellow,  not  ten  crowns 
in  my  pocket  and  no  horse — a  wretched  foot- 


158     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

man  at  whom  any  scurvy  groom  may  throw 
mud." 

Yet,  I  remember,  I  ate  heartily  and  drank  of 
the  best,  and  paid  the  score  with  my  saddle  and 
bridle.  And  when  Bar-sur-Aube  woke  and 
had  eaten,  I  played  him  at  dice  for  my  few 
crowns  and  lost  them  blithely  and  with  a  sort 
of  desperate  thankfulness.  It  was  something 
that  I  could  be  no  poorer.  As  for  the  villain, 
he  clapped  the  money  on  the  table  to  hear  it 
ring  and  bit  it  in  his  teeth,  and  laughed  and 
shouted  and  cursed  the  inn-keeper  and  called 
me  his  brother  and  Ma3cenas. 

"And  now,  brother,"  said  he,  "whither  will 
you  walk  on  your  legs?" 

Degraded  to  the  condition  of  a  foot-soldier  as 
I  was,  I  was  still  minded  to  go  into  Burgundy, 
but  "Verd  et  bleu!"  said  he,  and  "if  it's  fight 
ing  you  want,  brother,  come  with  me  and  fight 
the  Poles." 

He  laughed  his  bold  and  merry  laugh  and 
caught  my  hand  in  his,  and  swore  so  friendly 
by  the  twenty-one  devils  that  are  on  the  dice 
that  I  gave  consent  and  said : 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     159 

"Then  I  shall  fight  the  Poles." 
At  this  he  laughed  again  and  called  me 
brother. 

II 

IT  is  with  shame  and  yet  with  shy  regret,  I 
fear,  that  I  look  hack  upon  that  year  in  my  life 
when  I  wandered  the  highway  with  Bar-sur- 
Aube  and  his  vagabonds,  for  his  boast  of  fight 
ing  the  Poles  was  but  a  trap. 

There  was  a  great  band  of  these  vagabonds 
— masterless  scholars,  homeless  priests  and 
broken  soldiers — that  dwelt  in  the  lands  about 
Poitiers.  They  were  great  thieves  and  rogues. 
They  pillaged  the  countryside  and  even  the  city 
paid  them  tribute.  Then  with  full  purses  they 
rioted  in  the  taverns,  playing  dice  and  drinking 
strong  wines.  Villains  as  they  were  they  were 
merry  men.  They  would  kill  a  man  and  take 
his  purse,  and  in  the  same  moment  sing  a  gay 
song  and  even  do  a  kindness  to  a  beggar  man. 

There  was  one  little  dry,  dark  prudent  man, 
one  Francis  Villon,  out  of  Paris,  the  merriest 
knave  and  coward  in  the  world,  who  would  sing 


160     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

a  song,  either  merry  or  sad,  that  you  would 
weep  to  hear  it  and  think  no  more  of  evil;  but 
He  all  the  while  would  be  fingering  for  your 
purse. 

One  night  I  came  upon  this  broken  student 
as  he  lay  under  a  tree  weeping  and  praying 
piteously.  I  thought  him  a  good,  penitent 
man  and  would  have  comforted  him,  but  he 
broke  away  from  me  cursing.  And  that  night 
with  John  Cornet  and  Perrenet,  the  barber, 
and  other  villains  he  robbed  the  church  of  Saint 
Mary  in  Niort.  It  was  for  fear  of  being 
thought  a  coward  by  his  ragged  fellows  that 
this  poor  wretch  turned  bravo  to  Heaven, 
which  I  thought  very  strange,  and  it  set  me 
thinking  on  my  own  way  of  life — which  was  a 
way  of  thieving,  dicing,  drinking  and  debauch 
ing. 

That  I  could  not  have  been  a  good  man 
seems  quite  clear,  for  persons  of  radical  integ 
rity  will  not  be  so  easily  perverted  as  I  was, 
but  when  one  is  twenty  and  in  a  strange  land, 
hungry  withal  and  horseless,  virtue  is  not  much 
regarded.  And  since  I  lost  home  and  friends 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     161 

I  was  reckless  and  sad.  Verily  I  turned 
bandit  as  broken-hearted  maids  enter  a  con 
vent.  And  there  was  a  pleasure  in  the  life  I 
wrill  not  deny.  To  wander  along  the  great 
white  roads,  singing — to  be  masterless,  free  as 
the  air  of  the  hills,  owing  nothing  to  any  one 
but  "good  morning"  and  "good  night";  to 
quaff  a  cup  and  dance  a  round  with  ignoble 
girls — parbleu!  it  was  life.  But  all  this  was 
to  end.  It  was  not  my  fate  to  go  to  the  fire 
and  the  rogues'  death  in  the  square  at  Poitiers. 
Now,  it  befell  this  way. 

Gloomy  enough  with  empty  pocket  and 
aching  head,  I  sat  one  night  in  the  tavern  of 
the  Pomme  de  Pin,  when  this  dark  little  poet, 
Master  Villon,  came  in,  singing  in  a  shrill  voice 
a  song  in  which  there  was  no  great  harm.  He 
was  bold  and  swaggering,  as  he  always  was  in 
liquor. 

"Serpe  Dieu!  but  you  have  a  hang-dog  look, 
my  long  Scot,"  said  he,  for  it  was  his  foolish 
habit  to  talk  of  hanging. 

I  struck  the  table  with  my  fist. 

"If  I  hang,"  said  I,  "it  will  not  be  with 


162     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

French  rogues.  I'll  back  to  Scotland  and 
die  like  a  gentleman  by  the  king's  will." 

With  that  Master  Villon  gave  a  quick  look 
about  us  as  though  he  feared  espial,  and  came 
close  and  whispered : 

"I,  too,  brother  Scot,  would  fain  escape  from 
all  this.  Serpe!  I  am  a  learned  clerk;  I  am  a 
great  poet — moll"  and  he  struck  his  forehead, 
"what  have  I  to  do  with  these  dogs?  I  have 
a  good  mother — poor  old  woman!"  Saying 
this,  he  began  to  weep  and  called  for  wine  in  a 
voice  of  tears. 

"Brother  Scot,"  said  he  when  he  had  drunk, 
"I  must  escape  from  them;  and  you?" 

"For  good  or  ill,"  said  I,  "I  shall  wait  no 
longer  on  this  devil's  business." 

For  the  word  he  spoke  of  his  mother  made 
my  heart  beat  quick  and  true. 

"We  must  have  horses,"  said  he. 

"But  how?" 

"Horses  and  money — horses  and  money,"  he 
chanted;  "and  then  we  shall  lead  honest  lives," 
and  he  crossed  himself  and  murmured  a  dirige. 

Now  in  his  dark  little  mind  Master  Villon 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     163 

had  made  a  plan,  of  which  I  shall  say  no  evil, 
since  it  brought  me  my  good  fortune.  In  the 
street  of  the  Littlefields  there  dwelt  one  John 
Legrant,  a  goldsmith,  very  rich,  though  he  was 
but  a  thief,  insomuch  as  he  bought  stolen  goods 
and  paid  his  poor  brother  thieves  but  ill.  Still 
he  was  a  man  of  repute  and  had  ridden  abroad 
this  night  to  the  house  of  the  provost. 

"It's  God's  will  that  a  thief  should  be 
robbed,"  said  Master  Villon,  and  though  I 
know  not  if  that  be  good  theology,  yet,  being 
then  young,  I.  consented. 

It  was  after  midnight  and  the  moon  had 
gone  down  when  Master  Villon  scrambled  over 
the  garden  wall,  being  light  and  nimble,  and  I 
followed  slowly.  We  gained  entrance  to  the 
house  by  a  window  which  I  burst  open  with 
an  iron  tool  called  in  our  wicked  speech  ''King 
David."  We  broke  two  doors  before  we  came 
to  the  strong-room.  There  we  found  the 
treasure-box,  with  three  great  locks.  There 
was  never  a  lock  that  could  resist  Master  Vil 
lon's  slim,  coaxing  fingers,  and  within  the  half 
hour  he  had  picked  them  all  three.  When  he 


164     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

raised  the  lid  I  saw  but  a  pile  of  canvas  sacks, 
or  I  should  say  I  felt  them,  for  we  were  in  the 
dark. 

With  that,  "Hist!"  said  Master  Villon,  and 
pressed  so  close  to  me  that  I  could  feel  him 
trembling.  I,  too,  listened  and  heard  foot 
steps,  light  and  quick  approaching. 

The  little  poet,  trembling  and  praying,  fled 
rapidly  away.  I  heard  the  snapping  of  twigs 
as  he  ran  across  the  garden.  I  stood  still.  It 
irked  me  that  I  should  have  periled  my  soul 
and  gained  nothing  by  it  and,  as  well,  I  was 
too  big  a  man  to  get  nimbly  through  a  window. 
I  snatched  up  one  of  the  bags  and  drew  back 
into  the  blackness  of  the  corner,  and  stood  with 
naked  and  angry  sword,  waiting. 

First  there  came  a  little  yellow  quiver  of 
light  and  then  the  doorway  was  bright  as  day, 
and  I  saw  her  standing  there,  the  lamp  held 
high  over  her  head. 

I  am  an  old  man  now  and  my  blood  is  cold 
and  slow,  but  when  I  think  of  her — standing 
in  the  low  doorway  with  the  lamplight  on  her 
face — my  old  heart  leaps  and  struggles  like  the 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     165 

heart  of  a  boy.  (Dear  lady  with  the  blue  eyes, 
dear  love  of  my  youth,  dear  face  and  the  ever 
lasting  April  of  your  eyes!) 

So  she  stood  there  with  a  strange  wonder 
and  fear  and  courage  on  her  young  face. 

Truly  she  was  a  silver  girl,  for  she  wore  a 
coat  of  cloth  of  silver,  her  little  cap  was  wrapt 
round  her  head  with  silver  cords,  and  from  her 
girdle  hung  a  silver  pouch  and  dagger;  and 
on  all  these  metal  points  the  light  flickered  and 
shone.  There  was  a  bright  blackness  in  her 
hair — there  was  never  hair  so  beautiful  as  hers ! 
With  a  young  man's  recklessness  I  would  have 
given  my  life  that  night  to  bury  my  face  deep, 
deep  in  the  blackness  of  her  hair.  She  did  not 
see  me  then.  Lightly  and  swiftly  she  went 
forward  to  the  treasure-box.  She  gave  a  little 
cry  when  she  saw  it  was  open  and  looked  fear 
fully  over  her  shoulder.  No  one  could  stand 
with  such  a  pretty  air — with  such  a  curve  of 
the  throat  and  light-poised  head.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  stood  watching  and  murmured  some 
thing  which  I  could  not  hear,  though  the  voice 
was  sweeter  than  any  voice  of  woman,  save  the 


166    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

voice  that  sang  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  child. 
Then  she  knelt  by  the  treasure-box.  One  after 
one  she  took  up  the  canvas  bags  and  read  the 
papers  tied  in  the  neck.  And  with  all  her  fear 
there  came  a  little  look  of  anger  in  her  face. 
Twice  she  scanned  all  the  packets  and  at  last 
gave  a  little  cry,  "Oh!  oh!  oh!" — very  sweet, 
but  angry. 

Now  I  know  not  what  was  in  my  heart  at 
that  instant,  but  I  threw  my  sword  clanging  to 
the  floor  and  stepped  forward. 

She  rose  with  a  scream,  but  controlled  her 
self  quickly,  for  I  could  see  the  lines  of  her 
sweet  mouth  harden  as  she  set  her  teeth.  I 
swept  her  a  bow  with  my  old  hat  (seeing  at  the 
moment  how  ragged  the  plume  was  and  wish 
ing  it  were  new)  and  held  out  the  canvas  bag 
which  the  rogue  Villon  had  tempted  me  to 
steal,  and  said  in  court  manner: 

"Your  ladyship's  humble  servant.  Is  it  this 
you  are  looking  for?" 

Her  hand  stole  down  to  the  silver  dagger 
at  her  waist. 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     167 

"Have  no  fear,"  said  I.  ''I  am  a  knight's 
son  of  Scotland  and  a  Douglas." 

Her  hand  twitched  as  it  clasped  the  dagger ; 
her  eyes  never  left  my  face;  she  bore  herself 
with  a  pretty  air  of  pride  and  bewilderment. 

"A  Du  Glaz,"  she  said,  speaking  my  name 
in  the  French  way. 

"Hue  Douglas,  a  gentleman's  son  and  bach 
elor  knight,  your  ladyship's  servant." 

"And  what,"  said  she  coldly,  "is  a  Du  Glaz 
doing  in  the  goldsmith's  strong-room?" 

With  that  I  stood  and  faced  her. 

"Stealing,"  said  I.     "And  you?" 

There  came  a  flash  in  her  eyes,  but  I  looked 
at  her  steadily  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  face 
—a  smile  so  bright  and  mystic  and  swreet  that 
my  heart  was  like  water  and  I  trembled. 

"I,"  she  said,  and  the  music  of  her  voice 
made  my  trouble  none  the  less — "I  am  no  thief. 
I  have  come  to  take  my  own.  Though  this 
wicked  Le  Grant  will  not  give  it  to  me,  still  it 
is  my  own.  If  it  bears  not  my  name  I  will  not 
take  it.  Read!" 


168     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

I  held  the  writing  to  the  lamp  and  read: 
"The  trust  of  Sieur  Ogier  de  Vaucelles  for  his 
daughter  Catherine  de  Vaucelles,  1,000  livres." 

"Now  thank  God!"  she  cried,  "I  have  it  at 
last,  for  I  have  great  need  of  it.  It  is  the  life 
of  a  great  lady,  Sieur  Du  Glaz,  that  you  hold 
in  your  hand." 

I  picked  up  my  sword  and  said:  "I  would 
you  had  greater  need  of  a  man's  arm  and 
sword." 

Then  she  looked  at  me  musingly. 

"There  is  a  Scot  at  court,"  she  said,  "his 
name  is  Cande." 

"A  gray  man  with  a  blue  scar  on  his  brow?" 
for  I  knew  the  man,  though  she  spoke  his  name 
in  the  French  way. 

"Yes." 

"A  true  man,  John  Kennedy,"  said  I.  "He 
put  the  first  sword  in  my  hand." 

Again  her  eyes  studied  and  questioned  me. 

"He  came  into  France  in  the  suite  of  my 
gracious  mistress,  Margaret  Stuart,  Princess 
of  Scotland  and  France." 

Saying  this,  I  bowed  like  a  loyal  man. 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     169 

The  Lady  of  Vaucelles  looked  into  my  face 
with  true  eyes  and  said : 

"The  Scots  are  leal  men.     Are  you  leal?" 

"For  life  or  death,"  I  said,  and  dropped  on 
one  knee  as  though  I  waited  knighthood  at  her 
hands. 

"And  will  you  ride  in  my  service  and  in  the 
service  of  the  princess  of  your  land?" 

"Through  life  into  death,  dear  lady." 

"Then  come.  Le  Grant  returns  at  dawn 
and  we  must  be  well  away  ere  then.  There 
are  horses  in  the  stable — come." 

It  was  thus  I  rode  away  with  my  lady  into 
the  night,  knowing  not  whither  and  caring  not, 
for  I  was  with  her.  And  the  wind  in  my  face 
was  like  wine,  and  overhead  the  dear  stars 
shone,  and  in  my  heart  was  a  little  song  that 
sang  itself  to  the  rhythm  of  the  hoof  beats,  and 
the  song  was  only  this :  "That  I  might  love  you 
love  was  made,  dear  lady — that  I  might  love 
you  love  was  made"  over  and  over  again  as  we 
galloped  under  the  stars. 


170    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

III 

HOUR  after  hour  we  rode  along  the  great 
highway  or  through  the  copsewood  by  green 
rivers,  and  no  man  stayed  us.  The  sun  came 
up  and  made  a  pleasant  light  in  that  part  of 
the  world.  For  me  it  was  joy  enough  to  ride 
by  my  lady's  side,  though  it  were  to  the  world's 
end,  and  watch  her  face  and  her  curls  ruffled 
by  the  wind. 

Now  and  then  she  would  look  at  me  in  a 
questioning,  earnest  way,  and  when  I  met  her 
eyes  she  would  smile  a  little  and  say : 

"If  you  are  not  a  true  man,  Sieur  Du  Glaz, 
it  were  better  I  died  here." 

And  always  I  answered: 

"Dear  lady,  your  own  hand  is  not  truer  to 
you  than  I." 

Nor  was  there  anything  else  said  between 
us  until  we  rode  into  Niort,  a  very  wretched 
village  and  half  deserted,  for  the  people  in 
these  bad  years  had  fled  to  the  cities  to  die  of 
hunger  and  the  plague.  Yet  in  the  high  street 
was  a  sturdy  fellow  in  a  cap  who  led  two  fresh 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     171 

horses.  At  this  sight  my  lady  gave  a  little 
cry  of  content,  and  from  a  small  house  or  inn 
(for  I  do  not  remember)  there  came  out  a  man 
whom  I  knew  for  my  countryman,  John  Ken 
nedy.  And  he,  too,  knew  me,  though  I  was 
but  meanly  dressed  and  had  neither  armor  nor 
shield.  He  said  little  until  my  lady  had  gone 
away  to  rest  awhile  and  we  were  alone.  Then 
he  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — for  big  as  I 
was  he  was  bigger,  but  lean — and  said: 

"And  now,  Master  Hue?" 

So  I  told  him  how  I  had  met  my  Lady  of 
Vaucelles,  but  not  all,  for  I  was  not  so  scant 
of  news  that  I  should  tell  him  I  was  but  a 
bandit. 

"I  have  known  you  since  you  were  a  boy  no 
taller  than  my  thigh,"  said  he  when  I  had  made 
out  my  story,  "and  your  father  was  a  true  man 
and  your  mother  was  of  my  own  blood." 

"Yes." 

"But  you  have  no  cause  to  love  the  Stuart." 

"So  that  is  where  it  pricks,  Master  Ken 
nedy,"  said  I,  "but  you  need  have  no  fear.  I 
ride  in  the  service  of  my  Lady  of  Vaucelles." 


172     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY. 

"And  she,"  said  he  slowly,  "is  in  the  service 
of  Margaret  Stuart,  daughter  of  Scotland  and 
Dauphiness  of  Viennois." 

"And  where  she  serves  I  serve,  and  whither 
she  rides  I  ride — to  the  end,  John  Kennedy." 

"So  be  it,"  he  said  in  a  solemn  way  and  gave 
me  his  hand. 

Now  this  great  lady  was  but  a  little  maid  of 
twelve  when  she  was  carried  into  France  to 
be  the  wife  of  the  Dauphin,  who  to-day  is  the 
eleventh  Louis.  He  was  a  cold  and  wicked 
youth,  who  never  cared  for  father,  mother  or 
wife.  It  was  his  pleasure  to  make  the  little 
Scottish  maid  unhappy,  and  he  sent  away  all 
her  friends,  and  when  she  wept  and  complained 
(for  she  was  but  a  child)  he  laughed  and 
mocked  her  manner  of  speech.  Then  he  whis 
pered  evil  stories  of  her  Until  she  was  brought 
to  despair.  And  she  could  no  longer  rest  or 
sleep,  but  sat  on  her  bed  weeping  for  those  who 
loved  her  oversea.  Often  she  said  to  my  own 
dear  maid,  the  Lady  of  Vaucelles,  who  was  her 
tire  woman:  "Were  it  not  for  my  pledged 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     173 

word  I  would  fain —  And  here  she  would 
break  off  and  sigh,  dreaming  of  her  own  dear 
land,  the  dark  forests  and  the  Castle  on  Stir 
ling  Hill.  Now  that  her  father,  the  king,  was 
dead,  there  was  no  hope  for  her  in  all  the  world. 
Louis,  her  prince,  had  wearied  even  of  baiting 
her  in  his  cold,  evil  moods,  and  there  were  those 
who  said  boldly  that  she  would  suddenly  die. 
Then  in  her  fear  and  loneliness  she  consented  to 
the  plot  that  should  bear  her  away. 

As  we  rode  on  to  La  Rochelle,  my  Lady  of 
Vaucelles  and  John  Kennedy  made  known  to 
me  the  plan  they  had  laid  to  save  the  princess 
and  carry  her  to  England.  And  it  was  clear 
that  I,  being  unknown  in  the  town,  would  be 
of  great  help.  Their  one  hindrance  had  been 
want  of  money,  and  this  was  now  supplied, 
and  as  well  they  had  gained  a  stout  heart  and 
a  good  sword. 

We  came  to  the  town  at  night  and  they  en 
tered,  but  I  lay  without  until  dawn.  When 
the  gates  were  opened  I  went  boldly  in,  like 
a  stranger  and  asked  for  an  inn.  I  made  my 


174    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY- 

dress  better  by  a  mail  shirt  and  a  silken  doublet 
and  a  new  plume  to  my  hat,  and  then  went 
down  to  the  harbor. 

Near  the  tower  and  just  beyond  the  great 
chain  there  lay  a  Spanish  galley  of  sixty  oars 
that  I  hired  to  set  us  down  on  the  English 
coast.  The  master,  who  was  a  thrifty  rogue, 
knew  there  was  something  dark  in  the  busi 
ness,  and  made  me  pay  him  five  hundred  livres 
of  my  lady's  money.  The  sailing  was  for  mid 
night,  when  the  tide  served,  and  by  reason  of 
the  darkness  the  Spanish  captain  was  to  burn 
a  signal  torch. 

The  day  went  slowly. 

At  dusk  John  Kennedy  came  to  me. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "there  is  one  who  would 
see  you." 

I  am  very  certain  a  man  can  carry  two  loves 
in  his  heart  and  be  the  better  for  it,  for  though 
I  loved  my  own  dear  lady  none  the  less,  yet 
when  I  saw  Margaret  of  Scotland,  right  gladly 
would  I  have  laid  down  my  life,  like  a  carpet 
under  her  feet.  She  was  slim  and  small  like 
a  child,  with  gloomy  eyes  and  a  little  white 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     175 

face,  very  sad,  beneath  a  weight  of  thick  red 
hair.  Of  her  dress  I  remember  only  that  she 
wore  a  surcoat  of  saffron-colored  velvet  set  with 
emeralds;  and  bright  though  it  was,  I  think 
of  it  always  as  a  dress  of  mourning.  There 
was  something  watchful  and  timorous  in  her 
manner  that  seemed  familiar  to  me.  Surely 
I  had  never  seen  this  hapless  princess  before, 
yet  as  I  looked  at  her  there  came  to  me  vague 
memories  of  dark  forests,  of  windy  camp-fires, 
of  savage  cries  and  the  shock  of  battle.  AH 
these  things  I  recalled  faintly  as  one  who,  wak 
ened  of  a  sudden,  calls  back  a  fading  dream. 
Her  hands  were  little  and  pale,  and  upon  one 
of  them  she  wore  a  ring,  which  was  but  in 
itself  a  rough  circle  of  gold,  such  as  the  bar 
barians  fashion,  but  to  me  it  was  more  than 
strange.  How  this  could  be  I  know  not — and 
indeed  I  have  spoken  vainly  of  it  to  many 
priests — but  the  sight  of  that  ring  made  a  fierce 
confusion  in  my  brain.  I  could  not  think  of 
my  duty  to  the  princess,  and  forgot  both  my 
Lady  of  Vaucelles  and  John  Kennedy. 

Staring  at  that  ring  of  witchcraft,  there  came 


into  my  mind  a  tangled  dream  of  warfaring 
men  who  were  yellow  and  small  and  wild,  of 
hot  fighting  and  laughter  and  wine,  of  little 
hands,  a  face  dabbled  with  tears  and  kisses— 
and  the  dream  ended  blackly  in  death.  It  was 
only  for  a  moment  that  I  let  this  vision  trick 
me.  I  looked  at  the  princess  with  what  courage 
I  could,  and  though  her  eyes  were  averted,  yet 
it  seemed  to  me  that  she  knew  my  thoughts— 
that  she  and  I  were  together  on  some  lawless 
ride  in  forest  glades  and  over  glimmering 
prairies  among  the  savage  hills  of  another  land. 
I  write  the  thing  as  it  seemed  true  to  me  then, 
but  I  doubt  if  there  be  men  wise  enough  to  ex 
plain  it. 

John  Kennedy  spoke  my  name  and  my  gra 
cious  Lady  of  Vaucelles  said : 

"This  is  a  leal  Scot." 

The  princess  looked  at  me  with  her  great, 
sad  eyes,  which  were  green  and  troubled  as 
the  sea.  Then  she  gave  a  kind  of  cry,  but  not 
loud,  and  her  face  went  white  as  a  bleached 
bone.  There  was  silence  for  a  while  and  none 
of  us  dared  speak,  though  John  Kennedy 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     177 

gripped  his  sword  as  though  he  feared  I  was  a 
traitor  and  no  Scot. 

"Leave  us  alone,"  the  princess  said  at  last. 

Her  voice  made  a  strange  trouble  in  my 
heart.  Had  I  been  a  man  of  an  evil  past,  just 
so  I  imagine  I  should  have  been  troubled  by 
the  sudden  memory  of  a  lady  I  had  injured 
and  undone;  but  that  sin  I  had  never  on  my 
soul. 

"I  never  thought  to  see  you,"  the  Princess 
Margaret  said  softly  when  my  Lady  of  Vau- 
celles  and  John  Kennedy  had  felt  the  room. 
"No,  I  knew  not  you  were  alive." 

I  will  not  deny  that  my  first  thought  was 
that,  young  as  she  was  and  cruelly  used,  her 
brain  had  given  way  under  her  sorrow;  but 
upon  second  thought  I  knew  that  were  she  mad 
I  was  mad  no  less,  for  the  mere  sound  of  her 
voice  was  like  remembered  music  to  me.  She 
took  a  tablet  from  her  girdle  and  gave  it  to  me, 
saying: 

"See,  I  bave  written  to  you  again!"  And 
as  I  looked  at  it  I  knew  the  shaping  of  the 
letters  and  knew  that  this  was  her  writing  and 


that  I  had  read  it  before;  yet  withal  I  knew 
this  thing  could  not  be.  Was  it  a  dream?  The 
princess  spoke  aloud  the  veiy  word  that  was 
in  my  mind. 

"Yes,  it  is  part  of  our  dream,"  she  continued. 
"I  dreamed  it  first  and  then  I  wrote  it  down 
here.  I  have  seen  and  known  strange  things 
but  not  like  this — not  like  this.  Listen.  I 
will  tell  you  because  it  is  you — because  you  are 
the  dream." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  feebly  as  women 
do,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  pale  hand 
on  which  was  the  ring  of  savage  gold — the 
signet  of  some  great  dead  king,  perhaps;  then 
she  looked  up  at  me  earnestly. 

"You  are  the  dream,"  she  repeated.  "You 
shall  hear — but  surely  you  must  know !  How 
very  wonderful  that  it  should  be  you!  And 
that  you  should  be — what  you  are !  It  is  God 
who  has  sent  you  to  me  now,  for  I  have  prayed. 
Then  I  wrote  my  dream  on  the  tablet. 

"I  was  a  little  girl  living  in  a  palace,  but  it 
was  not  in  Scotland,"  here  her  voice  quivered, 
"but  in  a  land  like  Italy,  by  the  sea.  This  was 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     179 

my  dream.  And  my  mother  was  there,  but  not 
like  my  own  mother,  for  she  was  a  sad,  worn 
woman,  who  did  not  speak  to  me ;  still  she  was 
my  mother.  Then  this  land  like  Italy  was 
full  of  turmoil  and  fear  for  the  barbarians  had 
come  upon  it." 

"I  know,"  I  cried  in  spite  of  myself.     "They 
were  the  Huns.     They  had  conquered  Gaul— 
and  here   I   paused   shamefaced,   for  I   had 
spoken  the  maddest  words  man  ever  said  and 
knew  not  at  all  what  they  meant. 

"Yes,  it  was  because  I  sent  you  the  letter 
and  the  ring,"  the  Princess  Margaret  said 
softly,  "and  your  messengers  came  and  carried 
me  away  in  a  litter ;  but  I  did  not  want  to  go ! 
There  was  blood  on  my  dress.  It  is  an  aw 
ful  dream.  And  now  I  know.  You  have 
come  again.  Do  you  remember  that  night?" 
she  cried  leaning  forward  and  staring  at  me 
with  her  strange  eyes.  "The  banquet. and  the 
men  who  shouted  and  the  cries!  And  I  who 
wept!  And  when  you  took  me  to  the  tent  I 
went  quite  mad ;  and  when  you  lay  there  heavy 
with  sleep  and  wine — I  killed  you.  That  is 


180     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

the  dream,"  she  whispered,  "and  you  are  not 
dead.  You  have  come  out  of  the  dream  and 
I  did  not  kill  you." 

With  this  she  began  to  sob  very  softly,  but 
so  bitterly  it  would  have  gone  to  your  heart. 
I  stood  there  silent,  for  I  feared  to  be  infected 
with  her  own  mad  thoughts.  Indeed  there 
were  moments  during  her  speech  when  I  had 
been  quite  as  mad  as  she,  convinced,  I  know  not 
why,  that  this  dream  was  true  and  that  we  had 
lived  it  together,  she  and  I,  in  some  night  of 
witchcraft.  Now,  I  am  not  a  learned  man, 
though  I  have  more  Latin  than  many  priests 
of  these  new-fashioned  days,  but  I  hold  it  for 
true  that  I  was  so  swayed  with  pity  that  hour 
in  the  round  chamber  of  La  Rochelle  that  my 
mind  was  not  my  own,  but  became  merely  a 
mirror  for  her  wild  thoughts;  and  that  this  is 
possible  and  has  happened  to  others  I  could 
prove  from  authentic  writers.  The  pain  of  her 
sobbing  hurt  me  so  that  for  a  time  I  knew  not 
what  I  said  or  did.  Then  she  smiled  a  sad  little 
smile  and  said : 

"That  it  should  be  you — that  you  should  be 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     181 

the  dream — and  should  have  come  to  me! 
And  now  I  am  not  afraid,  for  I  must  pay  for 
the  sin  I  did  in  the  dream  and  then  all  will  be 
well." 

And  that  was  all,  for  I  went  away  through 
the  small  door  that  opened  upon  the  harbor. 

It  was  at  this  door  that  I  lay  waiting  a  little 
before  midnight  in  a  row  barge  with  two  men. 
It  was  very  dark.  I  heard  the  men  in  armor 
going  to  and  fro  on  the  battlements,  and  now 
and  then  the  challenge  and  answer  of  the  bow 
men  on  the  bridge. 

The  hardest  task  that  can  be  set  a  man  is  to 
wait  in  the  darkness,  and  it  will  pull  down  the 
stoutest  courage.  It  was  not  of  failure  that 
I  thought.  The  plot  was  well  laid,  for  my 
Lady  of  Vaucelles  was  free  to  come  and  go  as 
she  pleased,  and  it  was  in  her  habit  and  veiled 
that  the  princess  was  to  come  forth  on  the  arm 
of  John  Kennedy.  So  I  had  little  fear  for  the 
outcome.  It  was  of  my  own  little  maid  I 
thought — she  who  was  to  stay  in  Margaret's 
place  and  bear  the  brunt  of  Louis'  cold  and 
cruel  anger. 


182     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

IV 

THE  signal  torch,  small  but  clear,  flickered 
for  a  moment  on  the  Spanish  galley,  and  I 
drew  my  sword  and  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  little 
door  in  the  tower.  I  pushed  the  door  lightly, 
but  it  did  not  yield.  It  may  have  been  a  few 
moments,  but  to  me,  waiting  in  a  hurry  of  hope 
and  fear,  it  seemed  an  hour,  when  the  door  was 
opened  craftily  from  within. 

There  was  no  word  spoken;  only  the  door 
swung  back  noiselessly  in  the  darkness.  I 
dared  not  advance,  for  it  was  my  duty  to  stay 
by  the  row  barge.  I  could  do  nothing  but 
stand  there,  ready  for  what  might  come. 

Suddenly  as  paper  curls  and  crumbles  in  the 
fire,  the  darkness  crumbled  away.  Nor  have  I 
ever  seen  a  stranger  thing.  One  moment  the 
black,  silent  stairs,  and  then  everywhere  light 
and  cries  and  the  clang  of  steel. 

He  who  came  first  at  me  was  a  Swiss,  but  I 
ran  him  through  and  he  fell  screaming.  Above 
was  John  Kennedy.  He  came  down  sidewise, 
shouldering  the  wall,  and  with  his  long  sword 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     183 

stood  off  two  men  in  leather  who  fought  him 
from  above.  In  his  left  arm  he  held  the  lady, 
and  by  my  own  dear  lady's  silver  dress  I  knew 
it  was  the  Princess. 

All  this  I  saw  as  one  sees  a  picture  lighted 
up  in  a  lightning  flash.  I  shouted  as  I  ran  to 
his  aid,  and  when  he  heard  my  voice  he  cried : 

"Thank  God!  Hue,  take  her  and  make 
haste!" 

I  took  the  lady  in  my  arms,  and  her  figure 
drooped  like  that  of  a  dead  fawn — like  one 

without  life. 

•          •••••• 

"Haste,  man,  haste !  Save  her  and  mind  not 
me." 

And  this  word,  the  last  I  ever  heard  John 
Kennedy,  that  true  man,  speak,  came  to  me 
harshly  over  the  clang  of  the  swords.  Already 
I  had  run  down  the  stairs,  bearing  the  lady  on 
my  arm,  but  for  one  moment  I  paused  and 
glanced  back.  I  saw  the  three  men — John 
Kennedy  fighting  fiercely  and  like  a  wounded 
man,  and  above  them  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
I  saw  one  who  held  a  light  and  smiled ;  and  so 


184     THE  CAKNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

cold  and  young  and  cruel  was  the  face  that  I 
knew  I  had  seen  Louis,  the  Dauphin  of  France. 
With  that  Kennedy  fell.  Then  we  were  in  the 
row  barge,  I  know  not  how,  and  I  held  the  lady 
fast  and  my  knaves  rowed,  for  it  was  life  or 
death  for  us  all.  I  heard  the  strings  of  the 
arbalests  ring  and  the  bolts  flew  about  us  in  the 
water.  Lights  flamed  everywhere  in  the 
tower,  and  as  we  reached  the  galley  the  great 
torchlights  flared  up  on  the  battlements  and 
bridge.  I  leaped  on  the  galley,  bearing  on  my 
heart  arm  the  drooping  lady,  and  with  that 
sixty  oars  took  the  water  and  the  galley  raced 
out  on  the  tide,  a  strong  wind  filling  the  sails. 
Yet,  swiftly  as  we  went,  we  escaped  the  stones 
thrown  by  the  huge  engine  on  the  bridge  but  by 
a  man's  length. 

And  now  I  have  to  tell  the  end  of  my  for 
tune,  which  was  a  strange  fortune  of  good  and 
ill,  and  made,  like  a  Scotch  web,  of  many  colors, 
both  gay  and  sad. 

There  was  a  little  room  built  between  the 
two  masts,  and  there  I  laid  the  lady  gently  on  a 
couch  and  knelt  and  spoke  to  her  with  great 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     185 

respect.  She,  poor  one,  could  neither  hear  nor 
speak.  I  called  for  wine,  and  when  it  was 
brought  I  sent  the  varlet  away  that  he  might 
not  hear. 

"My  lady  the  Dauphiness,"  I  said  softly. 

My  fear  overcame  the  duty  I  owed  her.  I 
raised  her  in  my  arms  and  loosed  the  silver 
pins  that  fastened  the  veil  about  her  head. 
When  it  fell  away  a  great  sob  shook  me  and  I 
kissed  the  white  face — for  this  was  no  princess, 
but  my  own  gracious  Lady  of  Vaucelles.  Nor 
can  I  tell  the  tumult  in  my  heart  when  I  saw, 
there  in  the  dim  light,  not  the  red,  thick  hair 
and  unhappy  eyes  of  Margaret  of  Scotland,  but 
her  dear  face  and  all  about  it  the  blackness  of 
her  hair. 

"Hue,  Hue,"  she  cried  and  hid  her  face 
against  me. 

"There,  there,"  I  whispered  as  to  a  child  and 
as  my  mother  used  to  speak. 

"Hue,  oh,  Hue — and  she — my  lady — she— 

And  she  shuddered  and  drew  away  from  me 
and  covered  her  face  and  sobbed. 

"I  wanted  to  die  for  her,  Hue,  and  I  could 


186     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

not  even  die  for  her.  No,  not  even  that  was 
to  be!  And  now  it  is  too  late  to  save  her,  too 
late !  Ah,  you  do  not  know — " 

"It  was  Louis?" 

"No !  no !  We  were  waiting,  my  lady  and  I, 
until  it  should  be  time,  and  my  lady  was  pray 
ing.  Suddenly  she  came  to  me  and  kissed  me 
and  said:  'I  have  been  very  wicked.  I  gave 
my  pledge  to  my  father  and  my  God  that  I 
would  be  the  true  wife  of  my  lord,  the  Dauphin, 
and  if  he  kill  me  yet  I  will  not  break  my 
pledge.'  I  prayed  her  by  her  peril  and  ours, 
but  she  said:  'I  will  die  a  true  wife.'  And 
when  Cande  came  she  had  no  other  word  for 
him." 

"She  would  not  go,  and  we — " 

"No,  no,"  said  my  lady  softly,  "we  must  not 
blame  her.  Oh,  had  you  seen  her,  Hue !  'My 
God  has  spoken  to  me,  dear  friends,'  she  said, 
'and  I  must  not  go.  You  and  this  brave 
knight  must  go,  and  when  you  are  in  safety  I 
must  tell  my  Lord,  the  Dauphin,  I  have  sinned 
against  him  in  my  heart.' 

"We  knelt  to  her  and  even  Cande  wept." 


SCOTLAND'S  DAUGHTER     187 

Once  I  have  seen  her  and  once  I  have  seen 
the  Dauphin,  and  I  would  give  my  right  arm 
could  my  sword  reach  his  heart. 

Now,  the  story  of  my  lady  was  this :  Even 
as  they  knelt  there  came  a  shrill  voice,  crying, 
"Eh,  mistress,  why  not  now?  Tell  me  now!" 
and  Louis  was  there,  laughter  on  his  evil  face, 
and  men  witli  lights  and  weapons  came  running 
up. 

And  John  Kennedy  with  his  brave  heart  and 
true  sword  did  fight  his  way  out  and  bring  my 
lady  to  my  arms — and  died. 


It  was  long,  long  ago-,  and  though  for  many 
years  my  dear  lady  made  my  life  beautiful  with 
her  love,  yet  we  were  never  lightly  gay  like 
other  lovers.  Always  we  were  in  sorrow  for 
that  unhappy  lady  who  died  that  night  we 
would  have  saved  her,  and  though  such  things 
are  not  said  in  courts,  we  knew  it  was  by  Louis' 
hand  she  died. 

And  this  knowledge  and  the  sorrow  made  us 
very  humble  in  our  love  and  very  close  to  each 


188     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

other.  They  are  both  in  heaven  now — my 
gracious  lady  and  the  princess  she  served. 
And  I  am  old  and  I  wait,  as  on  that  dark  night 
at  Rochelle  tower,  for  the  door  to  open. 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES 


VI 

MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES 
I 

ALREADY  it  was  dark  on  the  moors,  the 
brown  slopes  drifting  away  into  the  endless, 
monotonous  twilight. 

Toward  the  little  pass  which  even  then  was 
known  as  Scarthe  Nick  a  vagrom  caravan 
marched  wearily.  There  were  lean  horses 
plodding  ahead,  training  lowT-wheeled  carts. 
Certain  dark  men,  dressed  in  bright-colored, 
ragged  clothes,  spoke  to  the  horses  confiden 
tially.  Starved  dogs  hobbled  faithfully  under 
the  wagons.  Women  and  their  young,  dumb 
and  watchful,  in  the  wagons;  women  with 
babies  on  their  backs ;  women  with  clinging  chil 
dren  made  up  the  end  of  the  caravan. 

There  were  perhaps  twenty  people  in  this 
little  company.  Slow-footed,  watchful,  they 
crossed  the  brown  moorland  toward  the  pass 

191 


192     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

in  the  hills.  There  was  something  Oriental 
about  these  people.  In  the  first  place,  the 
meager  horses  dragging  the  carts  followed  one 
after  the  other  as  camels  go  across  the  desert 
sands.  Then,  too,  the  men,  who  were  small, 
swarthy  and  sly  of  look,  spoke  to  the  horses 
as  though  they  were  speaking  to  friends  who 
could  understand.  And  the  dark-eyed  women, 
their  children  trailing  at  their  gowns  or  lying 
on  their  shoulders,  walked  lightly  on  as  those 
who  see  in  the  naked  night  the  mirage  of  palm 
trees,  spring  water  and  a  spreaded  tent. 

Of  all  this  company  it  was  plain  neither  man 
nor  horse,  woman  nor  child  cared  for  the  rough 
ness  of  the  road  across  the  moors  or  the  menace 
of  the  darkening  twilight.  They  seemed  to 
face  life  as  it  was,  caring  not  what  might  come 
to  them,  content  even  though  beyond  the  nick 
in  the  hills  toward  which  they  journeyed  death 
waited.  Perhaps  death  was  a  common  thing 
among  them.  Here,  in  their  wayfaring,  a 
horse  might  fall  in  his  rope  harness  or  a  woman 
might  drop  dead,  the  baby  still  packed  on  her 
back;  a  man  might  die  from  a  knife  stab  or  be 


hanged  high  on  a  gallows ;  some  old  wife  of  the 
little  caravan  might  be  tied  to  a  green  stake  to 
die  among  the  flaming  faggots,  and  all  this  was 
neither  life  nor  death — it  was  destiny. 

The  little  caravan  crossed  the  moorland,  took 
the  pass,  trailed  down  slowly  into  the  dale. 
They  were  silent  all.  No  one  of  the  black-eyed 
little  children  wailed ;  the  dogs  did  not  lift  their 
voices ;  the  women,  swaying  as  they  walked,  did 
not  speak;  there  were  only  soft  sounds  of  the 
horses'  footfalls  on  the  turf,  the  creaking  of  old 
wheels  and  the  slight  noise  of  the  men  whisper 
ing  to  the  horses. 

A  little  moon  came  up  in  that  Yorkshire  sky ; 
it  was  thin  and  small  and  curled  like  the  cut 
ting  from  a  thumb  nail ;  still  it  made  a  flickering 
light  down  the  slope  of  Wensley  Dale  and  fell 
vaguely  upon  the  four  towers  of  Bolton  Castle. 

Now  that  the  road  ran  down  hill,  the  little 
caravan  went  neither  faster  nor  slower;  always 
the  men  whispered  to  the  horses,  and  the 
wagons  creaked  as  they  journeyed,  and  the 
women  went  lightly  but  firmly  as  those  who  go 
toward  the  mirage  of  tented  rest.  As  they 


194     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

descended  the  hill  the  darkness  of  the  woods 
was  all  about  them.  The  road  they  followed 
was  rough.  One  man  went  ahead  with  a  torch. 
He  whispered  back  guiding  words  to  his  com 
panions  and  to  the  horses. 

So  they  came  to  the  village.  There  were 
only  a  few  thatched  cottages  bordering  the 
green  and  huddled  beneath  the  walls  of  the 
castle  as  though  for  protection.  It  was  a 
rough  and  dreary  little  hamlet — merely  the 
kennels  for  those  who  served  the  castle  folk. 
In  every  cottage  save  one  the  hearth  fires  were 
covered  and  all  was  dark.  The  exceptional 
cottage  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  street  against 
the  castle  wall.  The  door  was  open  and  the 
light  came  out  of  it  through  a  red  and  smoky 
fog.  As  the  little  caravan  approached  two 
brach-hounds  ran  out,  yelping  angrily.  Then 
the  lean  dogs  of  the  caravan  gave  cry. 

The  figure  of  a  man  showed  in  the  foggy 
doorway. 

"Down,  Blanche!  down,  Nell — heel,  you 
bitch!"  he  shouted. 

Slowly  the  two  hounds,  with  drooping  ears, 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    195 

came  to  heel,  while  the  four  curs  under  the 
wagon  yelped  and  jeered  at  them. 

"What's  all  this?"  the  man  asked,  striding 
swiftty  into  the  road  and  catching  one  of  the 
dark,  vagrom  men  by  the  shoulder.  "What 
the  devil  is  all  this?" 

He  glanced  back  at  the  halted  train  of 
wagons  and  beasts,  of  furtive  men  and  child- 
bearing  women. 

No  one  answered  him,  but  the  man  who  had 
been  the  torch  bearer  stepped  softly  to  the  sec 
ond  wagon  and  lifted  the  cloth  that  tented  it 
round. 

"Lady!"  he  said— "lady!" 

Now,  he  did  not  say  lady,  but  a  strange  word 
known  in  their  tongue,  which  is  Devla. 

"Gula  Devla,"  he  repeated  softly. 

The  little  moon  that  shone  upon  Bolton 
Towers  and  the  cowering  village  beneath  it  was 
still  small,  but  the  stars  had  come  out  to  help  it 
and  they  made  a  brave  light  in  that  part  of 
the  world.  So  one  might  see  the  small  wroman 
who  leaped  lightly  from  the  low-wheeled  cart 
and  whispered  to  the  man  at  the  hub.  Some- 


196    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

thing  he  said  in  his  own  speech  by  way  of  an 
swer,  and  she  smiled  at  him  brightly. 

While  they  were  talking  another  man  came 
into  the  lighted  square  of  the  doorway.  He 
was  small  and  dark  and  a  black  cloak  hung 
from  his  shoulders.  He  made  a  strange  ges 
ture  and  cried : 

"Come  within,  Sir  Richard!  Have  you  no 
fear  of  God  that  you  talk  to  people  in  the 
night?" 

"People!  Aye,  I  care  not  much  for  people 
who  go  abroad  o'  nights,  but  here  are  friendly 
dogs  and  good  honest  hoofs,"  said  the  man  who 
had  come  first  from  the  lighted  cottage;  "and 
there  is  no  witchery  here!  Is  there,  Blanche?" 
he  asked,  with  a  huge  laugh  out  of  his  deep 
lungs.  "Is  there,  lass  ?  Nay,  heel !  heel !  I  say. 
Will  you  let  that  lean  cur  be?  Down,  Nell!" 

This  was  a  big-bodied  man,  thick  and  effi 
cient  through  shoulder  and  breast;  the  hair  on 
his  head  curly  and  long,  and  he  wore  yellow 
mustaches  and  a  beard,  short-clipped  but 
strong,  on  his  chin.  He  had  been  fumbling  his 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    197 

bracli-hounds'  ears  as  he  spoke  to  the  short, 
dark  fellow  in  the  doorway;  now  he  added: 

"These  poor  vagabonds — man,  you  see 
witches  and  devils  everywhere!  But  that's 
your  business,  isn't  it,  Hopkins?  Well,  every 
man  to  his  trade!  Heel,  Blanche — Nell!"  he 
cried  sharply  to  his  wayward  hounds,  and  as 
they  slunk  to  heel  he  said  laughingly:  "Ye 
rogues !  'tis  plain  ye  were  bred  in  France." 

"My  lord!" 

"My  lord!"  repeated  the  big  man,  busy  with 
his  hounds.  "Nay,  not  yet.  I  am  Sir  Richard 
Scrope,  at  your  service,"  he  added,  for  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  upon  the  girl  who  spoke  to  him 
there  came  back  to  him  the  breeding  of  the 
court ;  so  he  said  again,  "At  your  service,"  and 
swept  her  a  bow  with  his  big  hat.  Now  the  lit 
tle  night  wind  in  the  valley  lifted  his  yellow 
hair  and  made  him  good  to  look  upon. 

The  girl  was  slim  and  tawny ;  her  eyes  were 
very  dark,  the  color  of  midnight  water,  which 
is  neither  gray  nor  black  nor  blue,  but  all  of 
these  colors ;  and  her  hair  was  sun-stained,  like 


198     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

blighted  corn,  which  is  at  once  yellow  and  red 
and  brown.  Her  dress  also  was  red  of  hue,  and 
both  at  the  waist  and  at  the  throat  a  faint  light 
sparkled  as  though  it  had  fallen  upon  copper 
or  gold.  The  reddish  dress  about  her  was 
coarsely  woven,  so  that  the  straws  whereon  she 
had  slept  still  clung  to  it.  The  torch  bearer 
who  had  wakened  her  stooped  and  brushed  the 
straws  away.  She,  unheeding,  looked  at  Sir 
Richard  and  at  his  crouching  dogs;  then  she 
said  again  as  one  who  will  not  be  gainsaid : 

"My  lord — for  lord  you  shall  be !  Nay,  we 
are  but  poor  folk,  too  poor  for  your  great 
courtesy.  We  are  wanderers  over  the  earth  by 
reason  of  our  sins.  But  we  know  the  future 
; — and  you  shall  be  a  lord!" 

"Do  you  hear,  Hopkins?"  cried  Sir  Rich 
ard,  turning  to  the  cloaked  man  in  the  door 
way  of  the  lighted  cottage.  'Tis  more  than 
you  ever  promised  me,  and  you  have  burned 
more  witches  than  I  have  pipes  of  tobacco.  A 
lord!"  he  added  gleefully,  for  the  thought  that 
he  was  to  be  a  lord  pleased  Sir  Richard  Scrope. 
He  looked  at  the  girl  and  laughed. 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    199 

"Sir  Richard,"  said  Hopkins  softly,  and  he 
came  forward  into  the  dark  doorway,  "go  no 
further  into  this  talk.  'Tis  the  mad  Papist 
blood  of  you  that  draws  you  into  this  danger. 
Your  eyes  are  blinded  and  you  cannot  see. 
This  girl  is  a  witch — nay,  see  the  dogs  crouch 
ing  behind  her!  'Tis  of  the  mad  dog's  foam 
she  makes  the  witch  draught,  spuma  canum. 
All  the  ancients  in  witchcraft  know  it — dog's 
spittle  and  the  spurging  of  a  dead  man's  eyes. 
Come  away,  Sir  Richard." 

All  this  the  dark  little  man  said  eagerly,  but 
as  though  he  were  urging  Sir  Richard  to  do  the 
thing  he  bade  him  not  to  do.  There  be  men 
who  can  speak  with  this  double  urgency.  It 
may  be  that  Sir  Richard  felt  the  treachery  in 
his  words,  for  he  turned  on  him  and  said  with 
only  a  slight  laugh : 

"John,  John,  my  base-born  cousin — John, 
how  long  would  you  weep  if  indeed  I  came 
to  evil  to-night?  Nay,  man,  never  protest. 
Bolton  Castle  is  a  good  fee,  but  Cromwell's  day 
is  over  and  the  brewer's  son  is  a  poor  twig  to 
hang  to.  Let  be,  man,  let  be.  I  came  to  you 


200     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

to-night  in  a  good  friendly  spirit  to  drink  a  cup 
and  bid  you  to  my  wedding  to-morrow,  though 
my  Lady  Greensleeves  loves  you  not." 

While  these  words  were  spoken  Hopkins  had 
hunched  his  cloak  about  his  close-cropped  head. 
He  said  calmly  enough,  but  with  a  touch  of 
sneering  sullenness,  "I  did  not  speak  of  my 
Lady  Greensleeves ;"  and  with  this  he  held  his 
peace  and  warned  Sir  Richard  no  more,  nor 
did  he  look  at  the  red-gowned  girl  who  stood 
watching  them. 

Now  Sir  Richard,  both  because  he  felt  no 
hate  for  any  man  and  because  the  wine  was  in 
him,  touched  his  base-born  cousin  on  the  shoul 
der  in  a  friendly  way  and  said : 

"Man,  you  are  witch-mad — you  should  be 
blooded,"  and  with  this  he  went  gayly  up  to  the 
girl  and  took  her  hand.  'Tis  a  little  hand, 
mistress,"  he  said,  "and  soft  for  a  vagrom  girl 
of  the  night." 

He  laughed  and  would  have  kissed  her,  for 
wine  made  him  ever  merry  and  kissf ul ;  but  the 
girl  drew  back.  There  was  fear  in  her  eyes, 
and  wonder.  She  said,  "Oh!"  and  then,  with  a 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    201 

little  shuddering  cry,  "no!"  she  covered  her 
face. 

"You  mad  girl!"  cried  Sir  Richard,  for  the 
wine  was  in  him,  "you  tell  me  I'm  to  be  a  lord 
and  you  will  not  kiss  me!" 

The  lady — for  though  her  people  called  her 
Gula  Devla,  which  is  as  though  one  should  say 
Gracious  Queen,  yet  the  word  lady  is  the  sweet 
est  in  the  world — the  lady,  I  say,  took  her  hands 
from  her  face  and  threw  back  her  head  so  that 
the  light  shone  upon  her  red  hair  and  the  cop 
per  jewels  round  her  throat,  and  said  certain 
words.  Her  voice  was  soft  and  strange.  It 
was  as  though  it  were  a  voice  of  desert  winds  or 
the  voice  of  silver  waters  rippling  down  far 
away  hills.  What  she  said  was  this : 

"You  must  not  mock  me,  for  you  do  not 
know.  You  will  never  know.  I  never 
thought  to  meet  you,  and  yet  I  knew  it  was  to 
be." 

Sir  Richard,  seeing  only  folly  in  her  words, 
toyed  with  the  ears  of  his  brach-hound.  He 
was  a  slow-thoughted  man,  and  if  he  gained 
any  meaning  from  her  words  it  was  but  vague ; 


202     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

so  he  tugged  lovingly  at  Blanche's  ears,  think 
ing,  it  may  be,  of  my  Lady  Greensleeves. 
Hopkins,  his  lean  jowls  covered,  glowered 
blackly  out  of  his  cloak,  now  at  the  girl  and 
now  at  his  high-born  cousin.  The  man  who 
held  the  torch  leaned  against  the  wheel  of  the 
cart;  the  lean  dogs  and  the  women  and  the 
children  and  the  dark  little  men  watched, 
huddled  under  the  blanket  of  the  night. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  girl  softly. 
She  went  close  to  Sir  Richard ;  she  breathed  so 
quick  that  the  copper  coins  jangled  and  clinked 
at  her  belt.  "You  don't  remember  me?"  she 
added  with  slow  entreaty. 

"Remember?"  Sir  Richard  repeated  with  a 
slight  effort  at  thought;  then  he  laughed  and 
groped  for  her  hand.  "There  are  so  many 
pretty  girls  in  the  world.  I'm  no  saint,  like  my 
Cousin  Hopkins,  but  by  our  Lady  herself  I  do 
not  remember.  Where  was  it  ?" 

"No,  no,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I  have 
spoken  too  soon." 

Hopkins  watched  her  shrewdly,  a  sneer  on 
his  cruel  mouth. 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    203 

"Down,  Blanche!  Heel,  Nell!  The  dogs 
are  fey  to-night,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

The  girl  touched  his  wrist.  The  tenderness 
had  gone  out  of  her.  She  was  bright  and 
caressing  and  hard  as  a  ruby — or  a  woman  who 
knows  she  lies.  There  was  a  false  and  coaxing 
flattery  in  her  face ;  in  her  voice  there  were  un 
real  tears  and  sorcery.  She  went  to  her  knees. 

"Pity,  my  lord,"  she  said.  "We  are  but 
poor  wandering  folk,  homeless,  masterless, 
hearthless.  Always  we  must  wander.  We 
are  unhappy  Egj^ptians,  and  because  when  the 
little  Christ  and  His  Mother  came  to  Egypt 
our  fathers  would  not  kneel  to  them  we  have 
been  sent  forth  to  wander  under  their  curse. 
Pity,  my  lord — for  the  gift  of  the  future  is 
mine  and  lord  you  shall  be — pity  and  let  no 
harm  come  to  us  in  your  town.  We  are  many 
—weak  women  and  children  at  the  breast  and 
men  who  do  no  harm.  Let  us  tarry  here  and 
pass  on.  Nay,  my  lord,"  she  cried,  for  Hop 
kins  was  whispering  to  his  high-born  cousin, 
"have  no  fear,  for  I  can  see  the  fate  above  you. 
Your  fate  has  led  me  here.  Listen,  my  lord: 


204     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY, 

the  golden  hand  in  the  cloud,  and  that  is  your 
fortune!  But  mine  I  know  not — mine  I  do 
not  know!" 

Sir  Richard  turned  to  her  and  swept  her  a 
bow  with  his  tipsy  hat. 

"Mistress,  it  was  ill  done  of  your  ancestors," 
he  said,  speaking  more  like  a  courtier  than  a 
man,  "to  show  no  courtesy  to  our  Lord  and  the 
Lady  His  Mother  when  they  came  to  your 
country,  but  that  is  not  an  unusual  fault. 
There  be  Puritans  here  in  Yorkshire,"  said  he, 
looking  at  Hopkins,  "who  are  no  better.  Be 
not  afraid.  Dwell  here  in  peace." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  with  quiet  eyes. 

Sir  Richard  called  for  his  horse  and  swung 
himself  into  the  saddle.  The  Egyptian  girl 
and  Hopkins  stood  looking  at  each  other. 
They  could  hear  the  clatter  of  the  horse's  hoofs 
on  the  stony  road  that  mounted  to  the  castle 
and  the  baying  of  the  home-going  hounds ;  over 
all  a  blithe  voice  singing : 

"For  oh,  Greensleeves  is  all  my  joy! 
And  oh,  Greensleeves  is  my  delight! 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    205 

And  oh,  Grcensleeves  is  my  heart  of  gold! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves !" 


II 

STILL  singing,  Sir  Richard  rode  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  castle.  He  spoke  cheerily  to 
the  old  servant  who  took  his  horse ;  right  cheer 
ily  he  greeted  his  old  uncle,  who  sat  over  his 
wine. 

"And  my  Lady  Greensleeves?"  said  Sir 
Richard. 

"You'd  not  think  of  disturbing  her  to-night? 
Sit  down,  Dick,"  the  old  man  said.  "The  wine 
grows  better  as  the  night  wears  on.  And  what 
have  ye  been  doing  to  disgrace  me  to-night?" 

"I,  uncle?  I've  been  trying  to  undo  the  sins 
of  your  youth,"  said  Richard,  grinning  at  the 
white-haired  old  gentleman.  "Uncle!  uncle! 
Where  did  you  learn  your  wicked  ways?" 

"You've  been  to  the  village?" 

"Aye.  I  went  to  see  Master  Hopkins,  my 
virtuous  cousin." 

"Cousin !"  cried  the  old  man  angrily.  "He's 
no  son  of  mine!  'Twas  all  a  lie  of  that  jade 


206     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Moll  Hopkins!  An  old  story  and  an  old 
lie!" 

"It  was  doubly  kind  of  you,"  said  Sir  Rich 
ard  with  a  disbelieving  grin,  "to  keep  a  roof 
over  her  and  send  the  whelp  to  the  schools, 
where  they  made  a  black  Puritan  out  of  him." 

"Charity,"  said  his  uncle,  emptying  his  glass. 

"Cousin  or  not,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "he's  an  ill 
shoot ;  but  I  bear  no  grudge,  though  he  did  his 
best  to  oust  us  from  the  old  home." 

"Had  Noll  the  brewer  lived  he  might  have 
succeeded,"  his  uncle  put  in;  "but  the  bad  days 
are  over  and  the  king  will  come  again." 

"A  glass  of  your  wine,  uncle !  To  the  king !" 
Dick  cried,  and  when  they  had  drunk  the  toast 
he  added:  "So  I  said  to  my  cousin  that  I  bore 
him  no  ill  will  and  bade  him  come  to  the  wed 
ding." 

"Here!" 

"Aye,  he  shall  drink  a  cup.  I  would  have  all 
the  world  merry  to-morrow." 

"You'll  never  make  him  merry,  the  crop- 
haired  rogue,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "Wine 
does  a  bad  heart  no  good.  They  call  him  the 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    207 

witch  finder.  'Tis  an  ill  trade,  that  of  burn 
ing  old  women,  and  shows  a  black  heart.  Son 
of  mine — no!" 

"Let  be,  uncle,  let  be,"  said  Sir  Richard, 
"and  drink  to  the  bride.  To-morrow  all  the 
world  shall  be  merry,  witches  and  witchfinders, 
too,  if  I  have  my  way,"  and  with  that  he  laid 
down  his  glass  and,  bidding  the  old  man  think 
of  the  sins  of  his  youth,  went  blithely  from  the 
room. 

Of  the  four  towers  of  Bolton  Castle  there 
were  lights  only  in  the  one  looking  toward 
Scarthe  Nick.  Up  the  winding  staircase  of 
this  tower  Sir  Richard  went  singing  until  he 
came  to  a  door,  behind  which  he  heard  laughter 
and  the  chatter  of  girls'  words.  He  knocked 
and  the  door  opened  a  hand's  breadth. 

'Tis  I,"  he  said  meekly  to  the  old  woman 
who  opened. 

'Tis  he,"  repeated  the  old  woman  to  those 
within. 

There  were  shrill  cries  and  laughter  and  then 
a  voice : 

"Sir   Richard,    indeed!    Bid   him   begone, 


208     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

nurse.  It  is  too  late  for  a  lover  and  too  early 
for  a  bridegroom." 

"Nay,  you  do  me  wrong  to  treat  me  so  dis 
courteously,"  said  Sir  Richard,  pushing  the 
door.  "My  pretty  bride,  may  I  not  see  the 
finery  and — hey,  what's  all  that?" 

For  Sir  Richard  had  no  more  than  stepped 
into  the  room  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  Lady 
Greensleeves,  gorgeous  in  silver  and  green 
finery,  than  her  maids  fell  laughingly  upon  him 
and  bustled  him  out  as  irreverently  as  though 
he  had  been  Tom  of  Coventry  himself.  Where 
upon  he  betook  himself  to  bed  and  slept  as  best 
man  may  who  awaits  his  wedding  dawn. 

Ill 

Now,  when  Sir  Richard,  leaving  the  little 
village,  rode  toward  the  castle  singing,  Hop 
kins  and  the  gypsy  girl  stood  looking  at  each 
other.  The  man  lowered  his  eyes  first;  he 
hunched  up  his  black  cloak  and  said : 

"We  must  talk  together,  you  and  I.  You 
have  said  too  much  or  too  little,  my  girl.  If 
you  know  the  future  we  must  talk  together." 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    209 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  and  a  smile  was  in  her 
eyes,  as  though  she  had  indeed  read  this  man's 
future. 

"Then  come  you  in  and  sit  by  my  fire,"  said 
Hopkins.  "You  have  nothing  to  fear,  gypsy 
though  you  be." 

The  man  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  toward 
the  lighted  cottage. 

"I  know  I  have  nothing  to  fear,"  the  girl 
said.  She  glanced  back  at  the  little  caravan. 
The  dark  men  were  alert;  the  lean  dogs,  their 
heads  on  their  paws,  drowsed  watchfully;  she 
signed  to  them  and  followed  Hopkins.  The 
cottage  into  which  they  entered  was  better  than 
its  neighbor  by  reason  of  the  wooden  floor,  the 
open  fire  and  the  case  of  books  hung  upon  the 
wall.  The  girl's  eyes  went  instinctively  toward 
the  books.  Yellow  and  somber  they  leaned 
against  each  other — blocks  of  mystery  and  ter 
ror  and  power.  She  knew  what  things  were 
done  with  books.  At  York  an  old  man  in  a 
wig  had  read  for  a  few  moments  out  of  them, 
and  three  of  her  men  were  taken  from  her  and 
hanged.  Why?  Ah,  that  she  did  not  know. 


210     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

The  books  had  willed  it.  The  books,  too,  had 
willed  that  an  old  woman  should  be  burned 
as  they  journeyed  through  the  Ayescarthe  val 
ley  not  a  fortnight  gone.  Well  did  the  gypsy 
girl  know  her  own  power,  for  hers  was  the  king 
dom  of  the  past  and  the  future.  What  had 
been  was  like  a  landscape  across  which  she 
could  see  men  and  the  nations  of  men  moving; 
the  future  was  like  clay  in  her  hands.  But 
the  present — in  the  present  she  walked  as  one 
walks  in  a  fog,  searching;  and  how  could  she, 
helpless  to  guide  herself,  guide  the  people  of 
her  caravan?  She  was  leading  them  through 
an  unknowable  land,  wherein  strange  things 
happened  to  them  and  death  caught  them  at 
sudden  turnings. 

She  did  not  fear  the  cold  wind  on  the  moors ; 
neither  did  she  dread  the  strangling  blackness 
of  the  nights  nor  the  mobs  who  harried  them 
in  the  towns.  She  feared  only  one  thing — the 
death  that  came  by  fire  or  water  or  rope  when 
men  read  to  them  out  of  books. 

"And  he  shall  be  hangit;  and  she  shall  be 
burned  quick;  and  the  child  shall  be  drowned," 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    211 

the  men  set  to  judge  them  decreed,  and  be 
cause  it  was  written  in  the  books,  even  so  it 
was. 

Knowing  these  things,  the  gypsy  looked  side 
ways  at  the  case  of  books  on  the  wall  of  Hop 
kins'  cottage,  and  fear  came  upon  her  and  she 
knew  she  was  afraid. 

"Sit  there,"  said  Hopkins,  pointing  to  the 
settle  by  the  fire. 

The  foreign  girl  took  her  place  quietly, 
though  her  eyes  went  from  him  to  the  books 
and  back  again. 

"You  must  not  judge  me  by  my  reputation," 
said  Hopkins.  Going  to  the  door,  he  made 
it  fast  with  an  oaken  bar  and  came  again.  "If 
I  hunt  witches  'tis  my  livelihood,  but  I've  swum 
many  a  brave  woman  so  that,  sink  or  swim, 
it  was  proved  she  was  no  witch.  Witchcraft 
is  devil's  work  and  very  infamous,"  he  added, 
"and  I  have  the  lord  protector's  warrant  to 
search  it  out  and  bring  it  to  punishment." 

"It  is  in  the  books,"  she  whispered. 

"The  law  sleeps  there,  but  it  depends  upon 
me  to  waken  it,"  said  Hopkins— he  threw  back 


212     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY, 

his  cloak  and  sat  by  the  gypsy  girl  on  the  settle 
— "or  to  let  you  and  all  your  people  go  from 
here  in  peace." 

"But  the  gentleman  who  rode  away  prom 
ised  us— 

"He — he  promise  you  safety  when  I  say  you 
are  a  witch  and  give  the  word  against  you  and 
your  Egyptians?"  Hopkins  said,  wagging  his 
cropped  head  at  her  and  frowning.  "Nay, 
mistress,  you  come  of  a  cursed  race.  We  have 
heard  of  your  people  ere  now.  And  blessed 
work  has  been  done.  Two  were  burned  at 
Normanton  and  three  were  hanged  at  York — 
a  blessed  day,"  said  Hopkins,  and  quoted  Holy 
Writ. 

(Now,  he  who  first  quoted  Holy  Writ  to 
serve  his  turn  was  not  called  a  Puritan,  but  the 
Father  of  Lies.) 

"They  who  work  iniquity!"  he  said  softly, 
and  rose  and  stirred  the  charred  wood  on  the 
hearth. 

In  his  black  clothes,  with  his  black  cropped 
head  and  his  black  face,  he  had  the  look  of 
something  evil  that  crawls  out  of  dark  corners 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    213 

at  night.  The  foreign  girl  drew  back,  shud 
dering. 

"Show  me  your  power,"  commanded  Hop 
kins,  leaning  over  her.  "Tell  me  what  you 
told  my  cousin." 

"Your  cousin!"  said  the  girl  wonderingly. 
"He  is  your  cousin!" 

Her  eyelids  fell  and  a  little  shiver  ran  over 
her  body.  She  brooded  with  shut  eyes  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  drew  herself  up,  laughing. 

"You  forget  I  know  the  past  as  well  as  the 
future,  Master  Hopkins,"  she  said  and  stood 
up,  a  slim,  autumnal  girl,  all  darkly  red  and 
yellow  from  hair  to  hem,  as  woodlands  are  when 
summer  is  dead.  "What  would  you  have  me 
do?  What  would  you  have  me  read  for  you 
in  the  future  or  the  past  ?  Give  me  your  hand, 
Master  Hopkins — so — so,"  she  said,  taking  his 
hand  in  hers.  "Let  me  see  the  lines." 

"You  gypsy  witch,"  Hopkins  said  quickly 
and  drew  his  hand  away,  "do  you  think  I  care 
for  such  mummery!" 

The  foreign  girl  was  watching  him  now  with 
keen  and  sudden  understanding.  She  did  not 


214     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

fear  the  somber  books  leaning  against  each 
other  in  confidential  mystery ;  she  feared  noth 
ing  any  more,  for  now  she  knew  the  man. 

"There  was  a  woman — she  was  burned  in 
Essex,"  said  Hopkins,  going  to  and  fro  in  the 
little  room.  "I  found  her.  She  could  send 
death  where  she  would.  She  used  to  beat  the 
ground  with  vipers — vivo  serpente — and  make 
a  circle.  Then  would  she  make  a  cross  of  larch 
twigs  and  toss  sand  in  the  air,  and  out  of 
it—" 

Hopkins  paused  suddenly. 

"What  comes  out  of  blown  sand?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"Death,"  said  the  gypsy;  "death  comes  out 
of  the  blown  sand,  but  it  falls  here  or  there- 
nay,  who  knows  where  it  falls?  That  is  the 
wild  death.  We  call  it  the  death  that  cannot 
see.  It  goes  out  blindly  and  strikes  and  kills, 
but  it  knows  not  whom  it  kills  or  why.  That 
is  death  at  hazard,  Master  Hopkins.  The 
blind  death!" 

It  was  growing  cold  in  the  little  room. 
Hopkins  threw  some  logs  on  the  fire  and 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    215 

waited  until  the  flames  caught  them;  then  he 
said  to  the  Egyptian  woman : 

"Like  the  arrow  that  flyeth  by  night." 

"That  is  not  our  way,"  the  girl  said.  "We 
send  death  where  we  will." 

"There's  a  man  has  wronged  me,"  said  Hop 
kins  darkly.  "He  robbed  me  of  my  birth 
right.  To-morrow  he  will  rob  me  of  the 
woman  who  should  be  my  wife.  And  he  is  a 
rebel  and  a  papist — a  slave  of  the  scarlet 
woman.  He  were  better  dead." 

The  fire  was  very  bright  now  and  threw  a 
red  color  upon  his  face.  The  girl,  studying 
that  face,  did  not  know  ( for  she  could  not  read 
the  present)  whether  this  man  lied  or  thought 
he  spoke  the  truth.  She  could  see  that  he  was 
unhappy,  and  perhaps  the  unhappy  man  who 
turns  to  crime  is  not  wholly  bad.  It  may  be 
that  he  was  not  wholly  unjust.  If  the  mar 
riage  laws  had  done  him  wrong  before  he  was 
born,  had  he  not  the  right  to  take  his  revenge 
where  he  found  it?  Life  may  have  been  given 
to  him  merely  to  set  things  straight.  Even 
his  dark,  vindictive  creed  may  have  seemed 


216     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

true  to  him.  He  may  have  thought  as  he  went 
on  from  crime  to  crime  he  was  doing  not  merely 
the  lord  protector's  work,  but  the  Lord's  as 
well.  There  are  men  like  this;  indeed,  there 
are  many  men  like  this. 

"He  were  better  dead,"  Hopkins  repeated, 
"for  he  is  predestined  to  damnation  and— 

"That  is  beyond  me,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
know  only  life  and  death." 

"And  to-morrow  he  marries  this  lady,"  said 
he,  "this  green  and  silver  girl — his  Lady 
Greensleeves." 

The  gypsy  girl  stared  at  the  fire.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  saw  a  girl  in  silver  and  green 
riding  along  a  pleasant  highway,  laughing ;  she 
saw  a  man  who  had  Sir  Richard's  eyes  and  the 
man  knelt  to  her — not  to  the  girl  in  silver  and 
green,  but  then  he  vanished  into  the  dark  and 
came  no  more;  all  this  the  Egyptian  girl  saw 
in  a  vision  of  the  flaming  logs.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  all  her  life  and  in  many  lives  she  had 
loved  this  man,  and  she  thought  that  perhaps 
she  might  find  him  in  some  other  life,  where 
they  were  both  but  nameless  ghosts,  adrift  in 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    217 

time.  Then  above  all  she  knew  that  she  hated 
the  girl  in  green  and  silver  who  had  come  be 
tween  them.  She  stood  up  feverishly. 

"And  to-morrow  he  marries  this  lady,"  said 
Hopkins. 

"I  will  do  what  you  bid  me,"  she  said  and 
plucked  at  the  wool  of  her  gown;  "but  quick, 
man,  quick — give  me  water  and  clay!" 

Hopkins  caught  her  wrist. 

"You  will  kill  him?"  he  asked,  his  voice 
shrilling  into  eagerness.  "You  can  do  it?  It 
was  done  in  Islington  in  Elizabeth's  time.  It 
cannot  fail!" 

"It  cannot  fail!"  the  Egyptian  answered, 
looking  straight  into  his  flushed,  dark  face;  "it 
must  not  fail!" 

Though  the  woman  throbbed  with  a  febrile, 
quivering  force,  perhaps  the  man  was  the  more 
nerve-strung  of  the  two;  still  with  an  effort 
he  got  himself  in  hand  and  said  quietly  enough : 

"If  you  do  fail,  my  gypsy,  I'll  have  you 
burned  within  three  days;  and  as  for  him,  the 
Lord's  vengeance  can  wait." 

Saying  this,  Master  Hopkins  went  to  the 


218     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

trough  of  water  by  the  cottage  door  and 
brought  her  water  in  a  wooden  dish.  Then  he 
went  again  into  the  night  and  returned  with 
his  hands  full  of  reddish  clay.  As  he  entered 
he  said  half  to  himself,  as  one  learned  man 
speaks  to  another,  "Now,  Adam  was  made  of 
red-colored  clay;"  and  in  this  phrase  there  was 
no  irreverence,  only  a  steadfast  belief  in  what 
should  be.  Darkly  evil  as  he  was,  this  little 
man  had  faith,  and  like  the  other  one  who  had 
faith,  he  trembled. 

Standing  there  near  the  fire,  the  Egyptian 
girl  was  flame-colored  from  head  to  foot — hair 
and  gown  and  tawny  feet.  Her  eyes  were 
closed  and  she  was  swaying  to  and  fro  a  little, 
repeating  swift,  mumbled  words.  There  radi 
ated  from  her  such  a  force  of  light  and  heat 
and  will  that  the  Puritan  dared  not  come  near 
her.  He  laid  the  clay  in  the  wooden  dish  of 
water  and  drew  back  toward  the  darkness  of 
the  door. 

The  girl  began  to  knead  the  clay  and  water. 
Always  murmuring  alien  words,  she  sank  down 
by  the  settle  and  kneaded  the  clay.  Then 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    219 

when  the  clay  was  supple  under  her  fingers  she 
shaped  the  figure  of  a  man. 

"See,  I  have  made  the  man,"  she  chanted 
softly.  "Man  I  make  and  he  is  man,  and  I 
breathe  into  his  mouth  and  he  breathes,  and  I 
kiss  his  lips  and  he  loves  and  suffers,  so  now  he 
may  die." 

Having  kissed  the  image  and  breathed  upon 
it,  she  held  it  toward  the  fire. 

Hopkins  came  to  her,  his  lips  wide  open,  his 
teeth  clinched. 

"He  will  die  if  you  cast  it  in  the  fire?"  he 
asked  harshly. 

The  lady  of  the  Egyptians  drew  a  knife 
from  the  folded  wool  about  her  breast  and 
made  with  it  a  gesture  of  destruction. 

"No.  I  must  cut  it  here  where  the  heart 
is,  and  then  he  will  die  at  once,"  she  whispered 
softly,  "and  dying,  he  will  know  /  gave  him 
death." 

"I  would  not  have  him  die  too  soon,"  said 
Hopkins.  "He  should  have  time  for  repent 
ance.  'Tis  always  a  chance  of  salvation." 

"I  know  not  these  things,"  the  vagabond 


220     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

woman  said  for  the  second  time.  "I  know  only 
life  and  death  and  the  mystery  which  is  greater 
than  they." 

"He  will  die  slowly  should  you  cast  this  im 
age  in  the  fire,"  said  Master  Hopkins.  "It 
was  done  in  Islington." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Pain  will  creep  over  him — eat  into  him 
slowly — then  he  will  die,"  said  Hopkins;  he 
caressed  the  dripping  clay  figure  with  his  hand. 
"It  will  be  for  his  soul's  good  or  a  warning  for 
others.  Lay  it  there  by  the  embers,  woman, 
and  little  by  little  thrust  it  into  the  fire.  And 
as  the  fire  eats  the  image  it  will  burn  away  his 
life.  Is  it  true?  Answer  me,  gypsy!" 

"What  you  have  said  is  true." 

She  lay  the  clay  thing  in  the  white  ashes  near 
the  fire. 

Hopkins  put  on  his  black  cloak  and  went 
to  the  door.  Without  he  saw  the  drowsing 
caravan.  Day  was  breaking.  Already  the 
light  flickered  over  the  four  towers  of  Bolton 
Castle.  Even  as  he  stood  there  looking  it  was 
day.  The  sunlight  made  a  pleasant  warmth 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    221 

in  his  body,  and  he  laid  aside  his  cloak  as  he 
entered  the  cottage. 

"Slowly,  my  Egyptian  witch,"  he  said, 
"slowly.  I  would  not  have  him  die  too  soon. 
How  long  will  it  take?" 

"How  long*  will  the  fire  burn,"  the  girl 
asked,  kneeling  by  the  hearth,  "and  how  long 
will  your  hate  last?  Let  his  death  begin  now." 

"Fire  purifies,"  said  Hopkins.  "Let  him 
feel  the  fire,  but  do  not  cast  the  image  into 
the  flames  until  you  hear  the  bells  ring — the 
wedding  bells.  Then  let  death  take  him,"  and 
he  went  to  the  door,  for  the  room  seemed 
clogged  with  heat.  There  was  a  grim  look  on 
his  face.  He  glanced  up  at  the  castle.  There 
was  sunlight  on  the  towers.  The  windows 
looking  toward  Scarthe  Nick  glittered  in  the 
morning  light.  The  man's  lips  curled  sensu 
ously;  there  was  a  great  hope  in  his  sleepless 
eyes.  With  the  air  of  one  who  has  life  and 
death  in  his  hands  he  turned  to  the  crouching 
girl  by  the  fire  and  said:  "You  heard  me, 
Mistress  Witch?  Do  as  I  have  told  you  and 
you  have  nothing  to  fear." 


222     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"No,"  said  the  girl  softly.  "Now  I  have 
nothing  to  fear." 

"He  must  die  with  the  ringing  of  the  wed 
ding  bells.  Wait  you  here  till  I  come  again," 
said  Hopkins,  and  he  took  the  road  to  the 
castle.  He  was  a  small  figure  of  a  man,  all  in 
black,  and  he  stooped  a  little  as  he  went  up  the 
castle  road. 

When  he  had  gone  the  Egyptian  girl  picked 
up  the  clay  image  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
but  a  shapeless  thing,  rough  with  white  wood 
ash.  Perhaps  only  Hopkins  could  have  seen 
—perhaps  only  hate  could  have  seen  in  it  a 
resemblance  to  Sir  Richard  Scrope  of  Bolton 
Castle.  Yet  it  was  the  image  of  a  tall,  stal 
wart  man.  The  gypsy  flicked  the  white  ashes 
from  it.  The  clay  was  hardly  dry  even  at  the 
tips.  For  a  moment  she  let  the  thing  lie  idly 
in  her  little  brown  hand.  She  was  thinking 
of  other  things — strange  things:  dim  hills  and 
the  rush  of  herds ;  a  strong  man's  kiss  and  the 
thrust  of  a  bull's  horn  that  cut  her  like  a  scythe ; 
and  with  that  came  a  vision  of  clanging  swords 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    223 

and  bright  torches,  cries  and  a  man — always 
the  man. 

So  often  death  had  come  to  her  and  breathed 
upon  her  and  passed  that  she  did  not  know 
whether  life  were  not  the  mere  shadow  of  it. 
Surely  life  was  only  the  glimmering  window 
pane  through  which  she  saw  the  landscapes  of 
the  past,  where  they  had  walked  together,  he 
and  she.  She  lifted  the  little  image  to  her  lips 
and  kissed  it  softly.  Even  as  she  held  it  to 
her  lips  there  came  a  sudden  brazen  noise  in 
the  air — the  clamor  of  bells  ringing. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  beat  about  her  like 
a  storm,  and  she  gave  a  little  cry  as  of  a  woman 
hurt.  With  this  she  crushed  the  clay  thing 
together  in  her  hands.  Deftly  her  ringers 
molded  it,  making  a  darkling  little  effigy ;  then 
with  quick  mockery  she  blackened  it  with  soot 
from  the  chimney  place.  She  scanned  it  in 
the  firelight.  It  was  grewsomely  like  Hop 
kins,  more  grimly  like  a  man  that  once  went 
groping  through  the  streets  of  Florence  long 
ago. 


224    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"Go!"  she  cried,  with  a  shrill  cry,  and  tossed 
it  among  the  flaming  logs  and  ran  from  the 
cottage.  In  the  street  her  dark-faced  people 
came  about  her  and  spoke  to  her ;  the  lean  dogs 
crept  close,  whining  comfort;  and  at  that  mo 
ment  the  clay  image  crumbled  into  broken 
shards  and  dust. 

IV 

THEY  kept  the  old  fashions  at  Bolton  Cas 
tle  ;  the  wedding  was  in  the  young  of  the  day. 

"We'll  have  no  new-fangled  Puritan  wed 
dings  here,"  Sir  Richard's  uncle  had  said. 
"We'll  keep  to  the  old  way  of  the  house." 

Sir  Richard  laughed  and  said  yea,  though 
his  Lady  Greensleeves  ruffled  and  strutted  a 
little,  as  ladies  will,  but  was  ready  as  he  was 
for  the  wedding  morn.  Now  that  Cromwell, 
the  brewer,  had  taken  with  him  to  the  grave 
his  ignoble  ambition  and  his  ignobler  fear,  the 
world  went  better  in  England.  Men  began 
to  feel  that  liberty  was  not  put  to  bed  for 
ever.  Though  the  dreary  Richard  Cromwell 
was  to  maunder  through  a  year  or  two  of  life, 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    225 

folk  took  courage.  The  crop-head  could  not 
rule  forever.  Clergymen  and  priests,  who  had 
been  hunted  like  foxes,  came  from  their  hiding 
places.  The  good  Father  Clare  came  from 
France — 'twas  a  bold  venture,  too,  as  things 
went — to  marry  Sir  Richard  and  his  Lady 
Greensleeves.  So  they  were  there  in  the  great 
hall  at  Bolton  Castle,  the  old  uncle  fumbling 
his  ruffles,  Sir  Richard  taking  his  morning 
drink  and  humming  the  song  he  had  made  of 
his  lady,  the  old  priest  bent  and  brooding  in  a 
great  chair. 

"Is  the  chapel  prepared?  Are  there  flow 
ers?"  asked  the  old  gentleman. 

"Chapel  and  priest  are  waiting,"  said  Sir 
Richard,  "but  the  bride — it  lacks  but  five  min 
utes  of  the  hour." 

"The  ignoblest  moment  in  Cromwell's  life," 
said  Father  Clare  out  of  the  depths  of  some 
reverie,  "was  when  out  of  fear  he  refused  to  be 
king." 

"A  king — he!"  cried  the  old  gentleman, 
catching  fire. 

"Come!  come!     To  the  true  king!"  cried 


226 

Richard.     "One  cup  to  the  true  king  and  one 
to  the  bride!" 

As  they  set  their  glasses  down  my  Lady 
Greensleeves  came  into  the  room — a  tall  girl, 
with  dark  eyes  and  a  laughing  face.  So  bright 
she  was  and  the  lace  of  her  gown  was  so  picked 
up  with  silver  points  you  would  have  called 
her  a  silver  girl. 

The  ladies  and  maids  of  her  service  flocked 
about  her  as  though  she  were  something  too 
precious  to  be  left  alone.  A  few  gentlemen 
of  the  neighborhood  completed  the  company, 
for  the  marriage  was  private.  Cromwell  II 
was  not  very  terrible,  but  Sir  Richard  was 
careful  for  the  old  priest  who  had  come  to 
serve  him  in  this  need.  The  little  company 
went  to  the  southwest  tower,  where  then  was 
the  chapel.  Father  Clare  went  first,  then  the 
old  gentleman,  giving  his  hand  to  my  Lady 
Greensleeves,  and  Sir  Richard  followed. 
There  was  very  little  light  in  the  chapel.  The 
candles  were  lighted  on  the  altar.  The  priest 
took  his  place. 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    227 

Sir  Richard  paused  at  the  door,  permitting 
the  gentlefolk  to  pass. 

"Have  you  bid  them  ring  the  bells?"  he  asked 
the  old  serving  man,  who  had  been  long  in  the 
house. 

"There  be  four  lusty  lads  at  the  ropes,"  said 
the  old  man. 

"Then,  when  Father  Clare  has  said  his  last 
word,  let  the  bells  ring,  old  John,"  said  Sir 
Richard. 

Handsome,  young,  strong,  gallant,  he  went 
to  his  bride.  He  had  loved  her  well  and  long. 
There  was  not  a  thought  in  him  save  thoughts 
of  her  as  he  went  forward,  knelt  for  a  moment 
at  the  altar  and  then  rose  to  take  his  place  by 
her  side. 

My  Lady  Greensleeves  slipped  her  hand 
into  his — a  little  hand  gauntleted  far  above  the 
wrist,  with  silver  broidery  on  the  glove.  Still, 
beneath  the  glove  he  could  feel  the  warmth 
and  loving  approach  of  her  hand.  He  never 
forgot  that  moment.  It  was  as  though  some 
dumb  little  animal  had  crept  into  his  hand  ask- 


ing  for  shelter  and  love  and  protection — her 
little  gloved  hand ! 

The  good  priest  was  telling  them  their  duties 
to  each  other.  All  Sir  Richard  knew  was  that 
the  little  hand  was  claiming  him.  Of  what 
Father  Clare  said  he  heard  not  a  word,  but 
the  little  hand  was  eloquent;  he  could  feel  it 
fluttering  under  his  fingers  like  a  nestling 
bird. 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered. 

My  Lady  Greensleeves  answered  only  by  a 
quiver  of  her  imprisoned  hand.  Then  they  had 
to  speak  the  words  that  made  them  man  and 
wife  and  one  flesh. 

As  they  knelt  there  was  a  sudden  commotion 
in  the  hall  without.  The  women  shrank  to 
gether,  the  men  put  their  hands  to  their  swords, 
but  no  one  except  a  servant  or  two  went  out 
until  the  service  was  finished.  Of  the  gentle 
men  it  was  Sir  Richard's  uncle  who  reached  the 
hall  first. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  angrily.  "Now, 
what  is  all  this  ?" 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    229 

"Master  Hopkins,"  said  the  serving  man 
respectfully. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  the  old  gen 
tlemen  asked. 

"He  came  to  the  chapel  door  laughing  like  a 
madman,"  said  old  John,  "but  I  would  not  let 
him  enter — no,  though  Master  Richard  told 
me  he  was  our  guest.  Then  he  said  the  pain 
was  on  him,  and  he  fell  to  the  floor  as  though 
he  were  being  crushed  in  a  vise — like  that  he 
fell  all  crushed.  So  we  carried  him  to  the 
chamber,  your  old  chamber,  where  Moll  Hop 
kins  used  to  come  o'  nights — long  ago,  that  is 
— and  now  he  lies  there." 

The  old  servant's  eyes  were  on  his  master's 
face ;  the  look  was  intent,  reproachful,  but  not 
unkind. 

"Come  and  see  him  now,"  he  said;  "come 
and  see  him  now." 

The  old  gentleman  pushed  him  aside  and 
went  first.  A  couple  of  louts  kept  guard  at 
the  door,  but  old  John  dismissed  them  with  a 
gesture.  Hopkins  sat  on  a  leather-covered 


chair  near  the  door.  He  was  bent  double  and 
groaning.  In  spite  of  his  pain  he  looked  up  at 
the  old  gentleman  and  said  with  a  sneering 
laugh : 

"You,  father!  You  see  that  blood  will  tell. 
I've  come  to  you  at  last." 

Then  he  shrieked  aloud ;  finally  words  came : 
"Let  me  alone!  Who  are  you  to  torture  me? 
'Twas  God's  word  that  no  witch  shall  live. 
And  I  had  my  lord  protector's  warrant.  O 
God!"  he  cried  again  and  again,  screaming. 

He  looked  like  a  man  who  is  being  pulled, 
stretched  and  molded  on  the  rack.  The  old 
gentleman  looked  at  this  pain-torn  figure 
crouching  in  the  leathern  chair,  with  the  awful 
fear  that  perhaps  after  all  this  was  his  own 
son.  He  remembered  the  old  days — Moll 
Hopkins  and  her  red  cheeks  and  her  rousing 
kisses;  always,  too,  the  old  serving  man  stood 
there  like  a  reproaching  conscience. 

"Water  I  water !"  cried  Hopkins.  Of  a  sud 
den  he  leaped  to  his  feet  and  stood  bolt  up 
right,  waving  his  hands.  "Water!" 

Even  at  that  moment  the  bells  began  to 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES    231 

ring;  cheerily  the  wedding  bells,  tugged  at  by 
four  lusty  lads,  pealed  out  over  Bolton  village 
and  the  dale.  The  air  rippled  and  sang  with 
the  music  of  the  bells.  The  noise  of  the  bells 
smote  into  the  little  chamber.  The  little  cham 
ber  was  filled  with  the  clamor  of  the  wedding 
bells.  And  Hopkins,  staggering,  went  to  the 
stone  floor — dead  like  the  broken  shards  and 
dust  of  clay  that  had  been  baked  in  the  fire. 

And  an  old  man  in  that  chamber  got  to  his 
knees — and  what  he  said  belongs  to  God. 

Always  the  bells  rang,  ringing  in  that  wed 
ding  morning,  ringing  for  the  lover  and  his 
Lady  Greensleeves.  These  two  stood  upon 
the  terrace  that  looks  northward  over  the  dale. 

"See,  that  is  good  fortune,"  she  said,  show 
ing  him  a  golden  cloud  that  floated  overhead ; 
"that  is  our  good  fortune." 

He  kissed  her  and  whispered  a  line  of  the 
song  he  had  made  for  her,  and  the  words  were : 

"For  oh,  Greensleeves  is  all  my  joy! 
'And  oh,  Greensleeves  is  my  delight ! 
And  oh,  Greensleeves  is  my  heart  of  gold ! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves !" 


232     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

So  they  looked  at  each  other  and  their  eyes 
promised  many  things,  and  they  were  happy. 

They  did  not  see  the  little  train  of  low- 
wheeled  carts,  dragged  wearily  by  lean  ponies, 
that  crossed  the  dale  and  breasted  the  hill. 
Why  should  they  have  seen  or  cared?  It  was 
a  dreary  little  caravan.  There  were  dark-col 
ored  men  dressed  in  gaudy  rags,  women  stoop 
ing  under  the  weight  of  babies,  creaking  carts, 
unfed  dogs — a  caravan  of  homeless  misery. 
In  the  second  cart  lay  the  queen  of  all  this 
wretchedness.  She  might  have  been  beauti 
ful,  so  strange  she  was  with  her  tawny  skin  and 
her  reddish  hair;  perhaps  she  was  beautiful  as 
she  lay  there  in  the  straw,  moaning: 

"Not  yet— not  yet!" 

There  was  a  gleam  of  copper  at  her  throat 
and  waist;  her  red  hair  was  loose  and  wanton 
about  her. 

"Not  yet!"  she  whispered. 

She  sat  up  and  pushed  the  hair  away  from 
her  face.  Her  eyes  were  wistful  and  intent, 
but  not  sorrowful. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT 


VII 

THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT 
I 

IN  the  year  VIII  of  the  Republic,  toward 
the  end  of  Fructidor — in  the  month  of  ripe 
fruit, — the  enemies  of  the  young  Republic 
ringed  her  round  like  wolves.  Prussians, 
Austrians,  Swiss,  Italians,  Russians,  prowled 
and  yelped  at  her  frontiers.  Napoleon  was  in 
Syria. 

But  the  nation  lived. 

The  nation  lived  and  the  armies  of  the  Re 
public  marched.  Across  Picardy  and  the 
green  Argonne  and  the  hills  of  Lorraine  to 
ward  Germany;  toward  south  and  east  and 
west  the  nation  poured  an  avalanche  of  men 
—beardless  little  conscripts,  their  uniforms 
ragged,  their  feet  bleeding;  grizzled  veterans 
who  had  fought  in  the  wars  of  Louis  the  Well- 
Beloved  ;  sons  and  fathers. 

285 


They  were  no  longer  shopmen,  'prentices, 
clerks,  laborers,  lords  or  hinds;  they  were  no 
longer  brothers,  husbands,  sons ;  they  were  the 
nation,  the  Republic — France;  and  they  were 
the  soldiers  of  liberty. 

Guerre  aux  tyrans!     Vive  la  nation! 

The  armies  of  the  Republic  marched. 

Shopmen,  clerks,  schoolboys,  dreaming  of 
glory,  they  marched;  peasants,  gentlemen,  beg 
gars,  they  marched — dreaming  of  the  un 
known,  of  fortune,  of  liberty,  equality,  fra 
ternity. 

Guerre  aux  tyrans!     Vive  la  nation! 

These  were  strange  new  cries  in  the  Old 
World.  Not  well  pleased,  the  kings  and  rulers 
of  men  heard  them.  England  urged  on  the 
royalist  revolts  in  the  Vendee,  in  Brittany  and 
in  the  seaboard  parts  of  Normandy. 

The  emigres  flocked  home  to  this  civil  war. 
In  the  wooded  lowlands  of  the  Manche,  in  II- 
et-Vilaine,  in  the  upland  forests  of  Mayenne, 
they  lighted  a  fire  that  only  blood  could  damp 
down — nameless,  heroic  blood.  It  was  a  sav 
age,  shifting  warfare  of  ambuscades,  murder 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       237 

done  in  dark  woodways,  death  sent  from  dusky 
hedges,  pillage  and  rapine  and  the  brother's 
blood  on  the  sword  of  his  brother — an  evil  war 
fare.  Those  who  loved  the  royal  wraith  and 
swore  by  the  saints  killed,  in  the  name  of 
France,  their  brothers  who  loved  the  wraith  of 
liberty  and  swore  by  the  Goddess  of  Reason; 
being  therefore  a  war  of  hollow-tinkling 
phrases,  it  was  savage  above  all  others. 

It  was  the  twentieth  day  of  Fructidor,  a  hot 
September  afternoon.  In  the  narrow  road 
that  wound  through  the  woods  from  St. 
Hilaire  d'Harcourt  toward  St.  James  the  heat 
la}T  like  a  blanket.  ]\To  wind  stirred  the  heavy 
air;  not  a  leaf  fluttered.  A  dozen  red  hussars 
in  dirty  white  cloaks,  their  steel  scabbards 
clanking  against  the  copper-bound  saddles, 
rode  through  the  forest  with  what  silence  and 
care  they  could.  At  any  moment  they  knew 
the  enemy's  fire  might  open  on  them  from  the 
underbrush.  They  were  not  used  to  this  war 
fare.  There  seemed  nothing  glorious  in  it — to 
be  picked  off  from  behind  a  tree  was  not  a  sol- 


238    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DE STINT 

dier's  death;  and  they  who  would  have  died 
blithely  in  the  shock  and  tumult  of  open  battle 
feared  the  dusky  woods. 

"My  orders  are  to  reach  St.  James  by  night 
fall,"  said  Sergeant  Jean  Marie  Lorin,  turn 
ing  in  his  saddle. 

He  was  a  tall  young  man  with  gray  eyes  and 
the  yellow  hair  of  the  Gaul ;  handsome,  too,  in 
his  brutal  health  and  insolent  youth.  "We 
must  get  on.  We  may  find  water." 

The  horses  were  fagged ;  the  hussars  drooped 
in  their  saddles — they  had  fasted  since  dawn 
and  were  throttled  with  thirst.  Still  at  the 
sergeant's  words  the  little  troop  pressed  for 
ward  at  a  trot  and  breasted  the  hill.  From  the 
crest,  where  the  forest  fell  away  to  right  and 
left,  they  saw  Montjoie,  the  huddled  village 
and  the  old  chateau. 

"It  seems  quiet  enough  here,"  said  Sergeant 
Lorin  after  a  quick  inspection.  "The  lieu 
tenant  was  right — every  hobnailed  traitor  in 
the  district  is  off  to  Fougeres.  rAu  trot!" 

The  hussars  straightened  themselves  in  their 
saddles  and  lifted  the  jaded  horses  into  a  hob- 


bling  trot.  They  grinned  at  each  other: 
"You'll  drink  with  me,  he,  Marius?  Water! 
Vive  la  nation!'" 

Shouting  with  parched  lips  they  rode  into 
the  village.  The  huts  were  deserted.  They 
found  neither  food  nor  drink.  In  the  village 
well  a  dead  beast  lay,  swollen  and  monstrous, 
breeding  pestilence. 

"They  have  poisoned  the  water,"  said  Ser 
geant  Lorin  thickly.  A  fierce  rage  took  him — 
a  desire  to  kill.  "To  the  chateau]"  he  cried. 

Thirst  gripped  him  so  at  the  throat  he  could 
hardly  get  out  the  words.  His  men  answered 
with  shouts  and  hoarse  curses.  They  rushed 
their  stumbling  horses  up  to  the  castle.  The 
gates  of  wood  and  iron  were  fast.  Lorin  bat 
tered  with  his  saber  and  called.  Within  there 
was  only  silence.  A  half  dozen  hussars  threw 
themselves  against  the  gates  until  the  rusty 
hinges  gave  way.  With  yells  of  triumph  they 
stormed  the  courtyard.  It  was  quite  empty. 
Sergeant  Lorin  stared  about  him,  at  the  empty 
stables  and  the  blind  facade  of  the  chateau,  at 
the  moss-grown  pavement  under  foot.  All 


was  rotting,  desolate,  ignoble;  yet  it  had  the 
pathetic  dignity  of  death.  Jean  Lorin  remem 
bered  an  old  woman  whom  he  had  seen  lying 
dead  by  the  roadside  during  the  Italian  cam 
paign.  It  was  after  the  taking  of  Mantua. 
She  lay  in  the  ditch,  crumpled  among  the  dusty 
leaves;  old,  ignoble,  dead — like  this. 

The  horses  had  found  the  water;  it  was  a 
spring  that  came  up  behind  the  north  wall  of 
the  carriage  house.  The  horses  drank;  then 
the  men,  trusting  their  beasts'  instinct,  dipped 
their  faces  in  the  warmish  water  and  drank. 
Water — it  was  not  water  they  sucked  up;  it 
was  life  and  it  was  courage  and  it  was  youth. 

"He!  sergeant!" 

Jean  Lorin  heard  quite  well.  He  heard  the 
splashing  in  the  water,  the  deep  breathing  of 
the  horses,  the  cries  and  laughter  of  his  men. 
His  own  mare  tugged  at  the  bit  and  threw  her 
self  forward,  and  then  looked  round  at  him 
with  pain  and  reproach  in  her  dark  eyes.  He 
sneered  and  pulled  her  back,  gave  her  the  spur 
and  jerked  her  back  again.  He  began  to  find 
a  pleasure  in  the  thirst  that  tortured  him,  his 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        241 

parched  mouth  and  strangled  throat,  his  burn 
ing  lungs  and  drifting  brain.  Men  feel  that 
pleasure  on  the  desert  sands — and  die.  His 
belly  was  pinched  for  want  of  food;  it  burned 
in  him  with  acid  fire ;  men  die  of  it. 

"O  guc,  ma  mie"- 

He  remembered  a  love  song  of  Cahors;  it 
was  a  thing  he  remembered.  Perhaps  it  is 
difficult  to  explain  what  was  in  Jean  Lorin's 
mind  as  he  dropped  from  his  mare  and  struck 
her  on  the  flank,  saying,  "Go,  drink."  He 
stood  for  a  little  while  looking  at  the  circled 
walls,  at  the  blind  chateau,,  at  the  red  in  the 
evening  sky,  and  thought  of  none  of  these 
things.  A  dim  sense  that  he  was  stronger  than 
other  men  came  to  him.  He  had  fought  with 
]N"apoleon  in  Italy.  This  dark,  little  oily  man 
had  been  made  a  general,  but  he,  Jean  Lorin— 
what  might  he  not  be!  Life  ran  past  his  eyes; 
it  was  a  panorama  of  conquest  and  glory  and 
exultant  personality.  There  was  force  in 
him ;  he  felt  it — aye,  with  his  own  hand. 

"Sergeant!" 


242     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY] 

One  of  his  men  came  up  to  him.  This  was 
Marius  of  Aries  in  Provence,  a  joyous  little 
man. 

"Drink,  sergeant — a  la  France!"  said  he, 
holding  up  a  bottle,  the  neck  of  which  had  been 
knocked  off. 

Jean  Lorin  found  he  could  get  no  words 
from  his  parched  mouth.  He  drank.  The 
splintered  bottle  cut  his  lips  and  the  wine  and 
the  blood  ran  down  his  throat  together. 

"Oh !  oh !"  he  said,  breathing  deep ;  and  drank 
again. 

"There's  a  cellar  of  it,"  said  Marius.  "Vive 
la  guerre!  Drink,  sergeant!" 

Jean  Lorin  drank.     The  wine  seemed  good 
as  water  to  him.     The  fog  lifted  from  his 
brain. 
.  "No  one  in  the  chateau?" 

"No  one,  sergeant." 

"Have  you  found  food?" 

"We've  found  the  wine  cellar,  sergeant." 

"Break  down  that  door,  Marius — you're 
a  thick-shouldered  man.  So,  both  together. 
Down  with  it!" 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        243 

The  door  was  a  small  one;  probably  it  had 
been  a  servant's  entrance;  it  yielded  to  their 
weight  and  finally  fell. 

"See  to  the  horses,  Marius.  See  to  my 
mare." 

"You  can  trust  man  and  horse,  sergeant." 

"All  of  you — I  know,"  said  Jean  Lorin. 
"We  must  start  in  a  few  minutes.  I'll  look 
through  this  hive  where  the  aristocrats  used  to 
swarm." 

"Drink,  sergeant." 

Jean  Lorin  set  the  jagged  neck  to  his  lips 
and  drank;  then  he  threw  the  bottle  into  the 
dim  place  before  him;  it  fell  with  a  crash  and 
splintered  on  the  stone.  There  was  very  little 
light  and  he  went  forward  cautiously.  He 
drew  his  saber  and  with  a  sense  of  comfort  felt 
the  sweaty  leathern  hilt  fit  into  his  fist.  First 
there  was  a  stone  staircase.  He  counted  the 
steps  in  a  dull  way ;  there  were  nine.  Another 
door,  but  it  gave  way  as  he  touched  it;  then  a 
long  chamber,  with  many  shrouded  windows 
and  pieces  of  furniture  bulking  dimly.  Be 
yond  was  another  room.  Indeed,  the  rooms  in 


244     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

that  half  light  seemed  to  fade  away  into  an  end 
less  vista.  He  went  straight  ahead  of  him,  his 
saber-hand  a  bit  advanced.  There  was  a  curi 
ous  singing  in  his  head — a  voice  like  that  of 
whispering  trees — but  withal  he  felt  life  throb 
in  him  tense  and  strong.  He  went  forward 
swiftly,  and  thinking  of  General  Buonaparte 
(for  his  mind  went  back  to  Mantua),  he 
thought  of  him  as  a  rival  in  glory — glory. 

His  spurs  clattered  and  sang,  so  proudly  he 
walked. 

Aye,  while  the  rival  was  in  Syria  he  would 
win  fame  and  power  at  home.  He  would  be 
lieutenant,  captain,  major,  colonel. 

He  had  entered,  thrusting  open  the  twin 
doors  of  a  little  circular  room  that  seemed  to 
be  the  segment  of  a  tower.  Even  as  he  entered 
there  came  a  scream  that  was  thin  and  angry 
as  the  squeak  of  a  trapped  mouse,  and  some 
thing  came  toward  him  in  the  twilight.  His 
saber  was  quicker  than  his  will,  and  the  thing, 
cut  half  through,  shuddered  down  on  the  floor. 
He  bent  over  it,  curious,  but  not  afraid.  As 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        245 

his  eyes  adjusted  themselves  to  the  light  in  the 
room,  he  saw  that  what  he  had  struck  down  was 
an  old  woman.  A  droll,  huddled  thing  she 
was.  Once  or  perhaps  twice  she  beat  her 
hands  on  the  floor;  then  death  took  her  and 
she  lay  very  still — crumpled,  old,  ignoble,  dead. 
He  had  seen  a  thing  like  that  in  a  ditch  by 
Mantua. 

"Bah!"  he  said,  straightening  up. 

The  blood  was  running  from  his  cut  lips ;  the 
taste  of  it  was  salt  in  his  mouth.  Mechanically 
he  ran  his  fingers  down  the  saber  blade,  cleans 
ing  it  of  blood  arid  snapping  the  drops  off  in 
the  air. 

"Bah!"  he  said  again. 

He  would  have  slid  his  saber  into  the  steel 
scabbard  had  he  not  heard  a  little  dull  noise  as 
of  a  leathern  door  swinging  back;  and  then 
there  was  a  light. 

It  was  the  flickering  light  of  a  candle  held 
high.  By  the  small  flame  Sergeant  Lorin  saw 
a  slim  girl,  all  in  white.  He  had  one  glimpse 
of  the  life  in  her  eyes,  and  that  was  all,  for 


246     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

with  a  little  cry,  "Oh!  oh!"  she  let  the  candle 
fall  and  ran  with  arms  outstretched  toward  the 
crumpled,  quiet  thing  on  the  floor. 

"Nurse!  nurse!  speak  to  me,"  she  cried,  fall 
ing  on  the  dead  woman.  "Nurse!  nurse! 
nurse !"  and  the  girl  repeated  the  word  until  it 
became  a  mere  rippling  noise,  as  though  sobs 
and  prayers  and  gasps  for  breath  were  all  one 
sound.  She  sobbed  there  in  the  dark  room  of 
the  tower. 

"Get  up!"  The  voice  was  thick  and  hur 
ried. 

Now,  the  man  who  spoke  these  two  words 
was  big  and  young  and  yellow-haired.  He 
was  Jean  Marie  Lorin,  born  in  1778  at  Cahors, 
sergeant  of  the  Twenty-third  Hussars,  son  of 
the  Republic,  and  he  looked  upon  General 
Buonaparte  as  his  rival.  His  hand  left  a  stain 
of  blood  on  the  white  silk  stuff  that  covered 
the  girl's  shoulder,  his  lips  a  stain  of  blood 
where  he  crushed  them  against  her  mouth; 
drunk  with  wine  and  murder  and  lust,  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  laughing — she  was  the  aristo 
crat  ;  guerre  aux  tyrans;  laughing— 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       247 

The  soldiers  of  the  Republic — none  save  they 
carried  the  torch  of  liberty  into  all  lands  and 
made  kings  quake  on  their  rotten  thrones— 
the  soldiers  of  the  Republic  drank  off  their 
wine  while  they  splashed  with  water  the  legs 
and  bellies  of  their  horses  in  the  courtyard  of 
Mont  j  oie. 

"Where's  the  sergeant?" 

"Drink  to  him!"  cried  Marius  by  way  of  an 
swer.  He  was  hung  about  the  belt  with  bottles 
of  old  wine.  One  he  earned  flushed  to  his  lips. 

A  trooper  who  had  been  washing  out  his 
horse's  ears  wiped  his  wet  hands  on  the  red  of 
his  breeches  and  took  the  bottle  from  Marius. 

"I'll  drink,"  he  said  to  the  sergeant,  and 
gurgled  down  a  pint  of  good  wine. 

"Drink,  Chopin,"  said  Marius,  grinning. 
"You  are  a  Brittany  rogue  yourself.  Drink." 

Chopin,  who  was  a  lean,  yellow  man,  with 
hazy,  cryptic  eyes  and  a  bearded  face,  handed 
the  bottle  back  to  his  comrade.  Then  he  drew 
his  wet  fingers  over  his  eyes  and  said  softly : 

"I  did  not  drink  to  the  sergeant,  though  he's 
a  good  man.  I  drink  damnation  to  the  Comte 


248     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTIXY 

de  Nemorin  and  all  his  race!  I  know  Mont- 
joie.  Eleven  years  I  lived  in  his  hand.  The 
old  count  had  a  gallows  back  of  the  stables 
there,  but  he  did  not  hang  me — no." 

"Drink,  comrade,"  said  Marius. 

Chopin  drank. 

"He's  in  London  now,  the  old  count,  eating 
Pitt's  gold,"  said  Chopin,  "but  some  day  I'll 
find  him.  Listen,  Marius.  It  was  my  sister. 
She  was  only  a  little  girl,  no  older  than  his  own 
daughter.  Marius,  I  swear  by  St.  Anne  that 
if  ever  vengeance- 
Sergeant  Lorin  stood  in  the  little  doorway. 
He  was  white  and  stern. 

"Where's  my  mare?"  he  asked. 

His  emphasis  was  dull  and  dangerous. 

Marius  brought  up  the  sergeant's  horse, 
cleaned  of  sweat  now  and  drinking  in  the  air 
through  her  wet,  porous  hide.  She  turned  her 
kind  eyes  on  her  master  and  shrugged  up  the 
skin  on  her  back  and  fore  quarters,  which  is  the 
horse's  way  of  saying,  "I'm  in  fine  fettle." 

"A  cheval!    A  clieval!" 

The  twelve  hussars,  busied  with  their  horses 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        249 

or  their  wine,  started  into  immediate  form,  so 
harsh  and  meaning  the  voice  was.  They 
swung  themselves  into  the  saddles  and  ranged 
their  horses.  Sergeant  Lorin  looked  at  them. 
'Twas  an  ill-dressed  troop,  for  wine  bottles 
dangled  at  their  belts.  He  smiled  grimly  as 
he  threw  himself  across  his  mare's  saddle. 

"Forward!"  he  said,  giving  his  mare  a 
twitch  of  the  bridle  reins.  "We  must  be  at 
St.  James  before  nightfall — lieutenant's  or 
ders." 

The  little  cavalcade  swept  through  the  castle 
gates  and  took  the  hill  road  toward  St.  James. 
The  moon  made  a  little  light  in  the  sky,  and  be 
hind  them  the  village  of  Montjoie  smoldered, 
red  and  smoky. 

"Sergeant,"  said  Chopin,  riding  up  behind 
Jean  Lorin — he  was  thick-bearded,  bony,  yel 
low-faced — and  touching  awkwardly  his  cap, 
"there  was  no  one  in  the  chateau?" 

"No  one,"  said  Sergeant  Lorin.  "Fall 
back!  Ranks — forward!"  he  added  sharply, 
"forward!  It  is  only  a  league  to  St.  James, 
and  the  road  is  good.  Now,  forward!" 


250     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY, 

With  one  single  rhythm,  and  the  same,  the 
hoof  beats  rang  on  the  road. 

So  they  swept  into  the  little  town  of  St. 
James. 

Sergeant  Lorin,  having  fulfilled  his  mission, 
reported. 

II 

Au  Monsieur  Le  Comte  Lorin  de  Cahors,  Colonel  au 
23E  Regiment  de  Dragoons. 

This  day,  the  tenth  of  Fructidor, 
in  the  year  one  of  the  French  Empire. 
Monsieur : 

I  beg  to  inform  you  that  the  Emperor  has  relieved 
you  of  your  functions  and  duties  as  Colonel  of  his 
Twenty-third  Regiment  of  Dragoons  and  that  your 
name  will  be  stricken  from  the  army  list.  You  will 
retire  to  whatsoever  place  you  may  choose  for  a  re 
treat,  but  on  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  this  letter 
you  will  kindly  notify  the  War  Office  of  your  resi 
dence.  I  salute  you. 

(Signed)  BERTHIER. 

By  Leduc,  Sergeant-major. 

Not  a  pleasant  letter  to  read.  Jean  Marie 
Lorin,  Colonel  of  the  Twenty-third  Dragoons, 
Count  of  the  Empire,  read  it  as  he  sat  in  a  lit 
tle  cafe  facing  the  house  of  Moliere.  At  first 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        251 

he  did  not  understand  it.  He  had  fought  well 
in  Germany  and  Austria;  he  had  brought 
home  wounds  and  glory.  A  big  blond  man, 
broad-shouldered  and  handsome,  he  lolled  over 
the  little  wooden  table  of  the  Cafe  Procope 
drinking  his  chocolate.  His  thoughts  harked 
back  over  his  career  in  life.  Simple  enough, 
all  this:  born  in  Cahors,  a  trooper  in  the 
Twenty- third,  and  then  a  sergeant;  made  a 
lieutenant  for  deeds  of  valor  in  the  wars 
against  the  Chouans  of  Brittany;  then  a 
captain,  a  colonel — grades  won  on  Rhenish 
battlefields.  Now  it  was  all  over  and  done 
with. 

"Why?  why?  why?"  said  the  young  soldier, 
beating  his  fist  on  the  table — "why?" 

Jealousy,  envy.  The  rival  hated  him  and 
feared  him — this  black  little  Corsican  who  had 
made  himself  Emperor  of  France ;  so  the  rival 
had  turned  him  out  of  the  army.  And  yet 
Buonaparte  knew  his  worth — had  made  him 
Colonel  of  the  Twenty-third  and  a  Count  of 
the  new  Empire.  Now,  with  a  mere  scrawled 
letter  from  Berthier,  this  new  Emperor  broke 


252     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

his  career  and  sent  him  back  to  the  poverty  of 
Cahors. 

"I'll  see  him,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  I'll 
find  out  what  the  Corsican  Emperor  means  by 
this." 

He  set  out  briskly.  From  the  Cafe  Procope 
to  the  Tuileries  was  merely  a  moment's  walk. 
He  entered  the  garden.  First  the  grenadiers ; 
then  a  long  double  line  of  Mamelukes  in  their 
gaudy  uniforms;  last  the  infantrymen  in  blue 
and  white,  black-gaitered  to  the  knee.  The 
Colonel,  Count  Lorin  de  Cahors,  passed 
swiftly,  giving  the  salute  of  his  rank.  He  met 
men  he  knew — gorgeous  officers  of  the  Hussars 
in  white  capes  set  off  with  astrakhan ;  broidered 
cuirassiers  in  scarlet  dolmans.  They  did  not 
answer  his  salute.  Officers  in  gray,  in  blue,  in 
red,  in  white  turned  their  backs  on  him  as  he 
passed.  They  were  men  he  knew,  and  Colonel 
Lorin  de  Cahors  set  his  teeth  and  a  nasty  sneer 
cut  his  face.  He  went  on  and  thrust  himself 
into  a  little  group  of  men  of  his  own  rank  and 
higher  rank.  There  were  civilians  there  in 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        253 

broidered  coats;  on  the  outskirts  a  hovering 
flock  of  women. 

Into  this  company  there  came  a  little  man, 
short,  rather  fat,  very  nervous ;  he  went  swiftly 
to  the  group  of  generals  and  colonels.  He  was 
short-necked,  this  man,  and  the  stiff  collar  of 
his  coat  cut  into  his  fat  cheeks.  His  chin  was 
blue  from  over-shaving  and  there  was  a  deep 
dimple  in  it.  His  nose  was  white  and  thin. 
His  lips  were  pinched  and  mocking.  A  glum, 
fat  little  man — but  there  was  fire  in  his  eyes  as 
he  glanced  left  and  right  at  the  people.  He 
muttered  to  himself,  as  men  do  who  have  the 
habit  of  talking  in  their  sleep.  His  hands  be 
hind  his  back,  he  sauntered  up  towrard  Murat, 
speaking  words  of  this  sort : 

"The  conscripts  must  be  trained.  I  have 
raised  sixty  thousand  men.  They  must  be 
trained  at  once.  And  gloves — you  must  see  to 
the  gloves — for  my  troopers.  They  must  have 
gloves." 

His  hands  behind  his  back,  the  thick,  dark 
little  man  turned  away.  Always  he  talked : 


254     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"You  forget  the  small  things — all  of  you 
forget.  Boots  and  gloves — that  is  war.  I 
don't  like  it.  My  men  must  have  boots.  I 
have  given  orders.  See  that  it  doesn't  happen 
again." 

Usually  this  man  went  with  bent  head  and 
eyes  toward  the  ground.  Suddenly  he  lifted 
his  face  and  stared  at  his  big  cavalrymen  and 
saw  the  Count  Lorin  de  Cahors  among  them. 
A  queer  smile  went  across  his  face.  Still  talk 
ing,  he  paced  to  and  fro : 

"You  are  too  fond  of  money,  all  of  you. 
(You,  Murat,  you  took  the  pictures  and  car 
riages  out  of  Milan.  Lannes  loves  money,  and 
Augereau  loves  money,  and  Berthier — you  all 
love  money.  But  have  a  care.  I'll  put  a  stop 
to  all  that.  Every;  one  is  stealing.  I'll  put  a 
stop  to  that." 

The  little  man  went  to  and  fro,  his  hands  be 
hind  his  back.  His  eyes  read  men's  hearts  and 
minds.  Humble  and  silent  the  generals  who 
had  won  historic  battles  looked  at  him  with  the 
mien  of  little  dogs. 

".You  are  thieves,  all  of  you — all  of  you," 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        255 

said  Napoleon,  "and  I  will  have  probity. 
You,  Lannes — you,  Berthier — you,  Murat — I 
will  make  you  honest.  What  do  the  English 
newspapers  say?  You  are  rogues,  all  of  you. 
I  will  have  honest  men  about  me.  You, 
Murat,"  and  perhaps  a  memory  of  old  days 
came  to  him,  for  he  pinched  the  curly-headed 
giant's  ear  and  smiled  at  him,  "you  are  the 
worst  of  all." 

He  turned  his  back  on  Murat  and  paced  the 
circle,  staring  at  the  boots  of  his  officers,  angry, 
grumbling,  impatient  as  a  bear.  Suddenly  he 
lifted  his  meaningful  eyes  on  Colonel  Lorin  de 
Cahors. 

"You?"  said  the  emperor.  "What  are  you 
doing  here?" 

"Sire—" 

"Sire,"  repeated  Napoleon  with  a  grim  little 
laugh — "Sire!  Well,  how  come  you  here?" 

The  colonel  advanced  and  saluted. 

"Are  you  married?" 

"No,  sire." 

"Good,"  said  Napoleon,  and  he  went  round 
the  circle  of  his  officers  and  he  said  dully : 


256     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"You  are  thieves — you,  too,  Colonel  de  Ca- 
hors,"  he  added  sharply.  "I  mean  you.  But 
you  shall  pay  for  it,  all  of  you.  There  is  too 
much  politics.  I  will  not  have  it.  You  hear? 
Not  married,  eh?"  said  Napoleon,  looking 
at  Colonel  Lorin  de  Cahors.  "You  have 
money?" 

"I  am  a  Colonel  in  the  Twenty-third  and  a 
Count  of  the  Empire,"  said  Lorin.  He  threw 
up  his  head  and  stared  boldly  at  the  rival. 

"Are  you?"  said  Napoleon  sharply.  He 
turned  on  his  heel  and  cried  shrilly : 

"Talleyrand— you!" 

From  among  the  courtiers  there  came  for 
ward  a  fat  old  man  limping  on  one  foot,  dressed 
in  a  snuff-colored  coat  and  wearing  a  big 
powdered  wig.  Approaching  the  emperor 
he  laughed  with  easeful  and  rosy  good  na 
ture. 

"Is  that  the  man,  Talleyrand?"  Napoleon 
asked. 

Talleyrand  looked  at  Colonel  Lorin  de  Ca- 
hbrs  and  said  oilily : 

"That  is  the  man." 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        257 

Napoleon,  little,  swift  and  dark,  strode  up  to 
Colonel  Lorin,  tapped  him  on  the  chest  and 
stared  in  his  face. 

"I  will  not  have  it,"  he  said.  "You  disgrace 
me.  What  story  is  this  I  hear  of  you?  It  is 
in  the  English  newspapers.  I  will  crush  you 
as  girls  crush  flowers  in  their  hands.  Talley 
rand!" 

"Where  is  the  woman?"  he  ask'ed  abruptly. 

"Here,  sire.  One  moment,"  said  Talley 
rand. 

He  bowed,  passed  the  line  of  generals  and 
the  thin  fringe  of  civilians  and  gave  his  arm  to 
a  woman  who  stood  with  others  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  crowd.  Then  he  came  again,  the 
woman  on  his  arm,  toward  Napoleon.  The 
Emperor  was  walking  to  and  fro,  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  Colonel  Lorin  looked  at  all  the 
actors  in  this  little  drama — at  Napoleon,  at 
Talleyrand,  at  the  woman.  What  it  all  meant 
he  knew  not,  but  like  a  brave  man  he  straight 
ened  his  spine  and  squared  his  shoulders. 

As  the  woman  came  forward  Napoleon  faced 
her  in  a  sharp  military  way. 


258     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"La  Comtesse  de  Nemorin,"  he  said  quickly, 
"you  are  she — and  this  is  the  man?" 

The  woman  made  the  gesture  which  means 
yes.  She  was  young,  almost  a  girl.  The  red 
in  her  hair  and  the  gray  pain  in  her  eyes  made 
her  sad  and  beautiful.  The  dress  she  wore 
added  to  her  beauty;  for  in  the  first  year  of  the 
Empire  ladies  dressed  themselves  in  the  senti 
mental  gowns  of  Greece.  So  from  head  to 
foot  she  was  robed  in  white  and  yellow  stuffs 
of  thin  silk.  She  was  girdled  high  up  under 
her  breasts  with  a  girdle  of  yellow  ribbon.  A 
handsome,  lithe,  long-limbed  girl  she  was,  with 
hair  gloriously  red,  but  her  white  face  was 
pinched  and  sad. 

'"This  is  the  man?"  asked  Napoleon  grimly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman. 

Talleyrand  said  yes  and  took  snuff. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Cahors,"  said  Na 
poleon,  the  emperor  in  a  queer,  soft  voice,  "this 
is  your  wife,  Mademoiselle  de  Nemorin  of 
Montjoie  in  Brittany — your  wife,  you  under 
stand,  or  you  are  no  longer  the  colonel  of  the 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        259 

Twenty-third.     See  to  it  Talleyrand — see  it  is 
done." 

The  emperor  turned  to  his  generals.  His 
hands  behind  his  hack,  he  stared  at  them  gloom 
ily- 

"Rogues,  all  of  you,  but  I'll  put  a  stop  to 
it,"  he  said,  and  again  he  went  to  Murat  and 
pulled  the  hairy  giant's  ear  and  slapped  his  fat 
cheeks.  "You  are  the  worst  rogue  of  all. 
You  waste  women,  and  women  must  be  re 
spected.  I'll  not  have  it." 

The  dark  little  man  fumbled  in  his  brain  to 
find  what  he  should  say  next.  The  words  that 
came  were : 

"Where's  Talleyrand?" 

He  paced  to  and  fro,  his  head  drooping.  A 
servant,  or  perhaps  a  general,  ran  to  bid  Tal 
leyrand  come.  But  Talleyrand  did  not  come. 
At  that  moment  he  was  busy  in  the  chapel,  lis 
tening  to  the  words  which  should  make  Colonel 
Jean  Marie  Lorin,  the  Comte  de  Cahors,  the 
husband  of  Mademoiselle  Marguerite  de  Nem- 
orin  of  Montjoie  in  Brittany. 


260    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

With  an  easy  gesture  of  farewell  the  Em 
peror  sauntered  toward  the  palace. 

ni 

THE  coach  drawn  by  six  gray  horses 
rumbled  heavily  along  the  forest  road.  Col 
onel  Lorin,  who  from  the  heat  of  the  day  and 
the  sullenness  of  his  anger  had  dozed  a  little, 
roused  himself  and  looked  out.  He  admired 
the  easy  address  of  the  postilion  who  guided  the 
leaders  and  the  sure  hand  of  the  coachman  who 
held  the  reins  over  the  Quadriga.  The  creak 
ing  coach  took  the  hill  slowly,  the  iron  work 
jangling,  the  coachman's  whip  cracking  out  in 
numerable  pistol  shots  to  right  and  left  of  the 
tugging  grays,  the  postilion  whistling  to  the 
leaders.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  the  road  opened 
in  the  forest.  Below  lay  a  broad  prospect  of 
wood  and  vale,  the  ruins  of  a  village  and  above 
it  a  darkling  castle.  As  he  looked  out  upon 
this  landscape  other  days  and  years  came  back 
dimly  to  Colonel  Lorin.  He  was  quite  sure 
he  had  ridden  this  road  before,  but  when? 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  slim  mute 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       261 

figure  in  the  dusky  corner  of  the  carriage. 
He  saw  only  the  white  of  her  cloak,  the  profile 
of  a  brooding  face  shaded  by  a  flaring  hood. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,"  he  said,  "this  ride 
might  have  tired  a  husband's  patience,  but  this 
day  of  all  days  I  owe  you  obedience.  Still, 
may  I  ask  whether  we  are  near  our  journey's 
end?" 

The  lady  made  no  motion,  save  that  her 
hands  fretted  the  folds  of  her  cloak. 

"Madame,"  he  continued  with  formal  cour 
tesy,  "the  emperor  has  given  me  a  gift  above 
my  deserts.  He  has  given  me  a  wife  from  the 
old  nobility  of  France — of  Brittany,  is  it  not? 
— and  I,  as  you  know,  in  spite  of  my  new  title, 
am  but  a  rough  soldier.  I  do  not  know  why 
the  emperor  should  have  done  me  this  honor. 
Do  you,  madame?" 

The  lady,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  brooded  in 
the  dusky  corner  of  the  carriage,  as  she  had 
done  for  many  hours. 

"Nor  do  I  understand  why  Monsieur  Talley 
rand — that  great  man — should  have  my  happi 
ness  so  much  at  heart,"  Colonel  Lorin  added. 


"But  I  am  a  soldier.  I  obey  orders.  Ma 
dame,  you  and  the  emperor  and  Monsieur  Tal 
leyrand  have  conspired  to  make  me  happy.  A 
wife  above  my  deserts.  Permit  me  once  more 
to  thank  you — all  of  you." 

It  may  be  that  the  nagging  irony  in  his 
words  stung  the  lady  out  of  her  resolute  silence. 

"You  need  not  thank  me  yet,"  she  said 
coldly. 

The  coach  was  lurching  swiftly  down  the 
hill,  but  Colonel  Lorin  thrust  his  head  from 
the  window  and  bade  the  postilion  make  haste. 
,The  fellow  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  back 
— a  yellow,  lean  man  with  a  bearded  face  and 
hazy  eyes.  He  touched  his  glazed  hat  and 
gave  the  leaders  the  whip. 

"I've  seen  that  fellow,  but  where — where," 
Colonel  Lorin  muttered.  He  sank  back  in  his 
corner,  silent.  The  present  he  did  not  under 
stand  ;  vaguely  he  felt  that  he  was  the  victim  of 
the  past — a  past  that  was  not  his  own. 

The  squealing  grays  scrambled  through  the 
ashen  ruins  of  a  village,  mounted  a  short  hill  to 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        263 

the  castle  and  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  The 
postilion  dropped  from  his  saddle  and  opened 
the  door  of  the  carriage  and  let  down  the  steps. 
As  the  door  opened  on  her  side  the  lady  stepped 
out  first;  without  a  glance  behind  her  she  en 
tered  the  courtyard  of  the  chateau.  There 
were  a  dozen  men  or  more  about  the  gateway. 
They  were  thick-shouldered  men,  dark  and 
bearded,  dressed  in  rough  garments  and  wear 
ing  heavy  clogs.  As  he  leaped  from  the  car 
riage  Colonel  Lorin  scanned  them  with  the 
habit  of  his  profession.  The  postilion  ap 
proached  with  a  military  salute. 

"Chopin,  one  of  your  hussars  when  you  were 
sergeant  of  the  Twenty-third,  here  in  the  old 
Chouans  days,"  said  the  fellow;  "years  ago,  my 
colonel." 

"I  do  not  remember  all  my  men,"  the  colonel 
said  brusquely,  pushing  him  aside  and  entering 
the  courtyard,  "and  just  now— 

"But  I  do  remember,"  Chopin  said,  though 
he  said  it  to  the  colonel's  back,  "and  if  I  had  not 
remembered — well,  'tis  not  in  my  hands  now. 


264     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Tout  se  paye!  The  old  count  learned  that  in 
London,  and  the  colonel  will  learn  as  much 
here." 

The  coach  waited  in  the  road;  the  peasants 
about  the  gate  slipped  one  by  one  into  the 
courtyard ;  the  gates  were  closed. 

Colonel  Lorin  crossed  the  courtyard  straight 
to  the  white-cloaked  figure  standing  near  a 
door  of  the  old  chateau — a  desolate  old  castle, 
the  blind  windows  stained  red  now  with  the 
evening  light.  He  may  have  heard  the  gates 
close  behind  him;  certainly  he  swept  his  eyes 
round  the  moldy  courtyard  and  along  the  front 
of  the  naked  stables ;  but  with  a  soldier's  steady 
stride  he  went  straight  to  the  lady,  who  had 
paused  near  the  small  open  door  of  the  chateau. 
He  gave  no  sign  that  he  knew  that  door, 
though  his  heart  jerked  and  pounded  in  his 
breast.  He  saluted  and  stood  waiting.  The 
lady  entered  the  narrow  passage  and  he  fol 
lowed.  They  climbed  a  stone  staircase. 
There  were  nine  steps;  then  there  were  doors 
and  long  dusky  chambers  opening  one  into  the 
other.  An  odor  of  decay ;  dust  started  up  from 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        265 

the  old  floors  and  dripped  from  the  rotting 
tapestries. 

Jean  Marie  Lorin  followed  the  lady  the  em 
peror  had  given  him  for  wife  until  they  came 
to  a  small  room  in  the  tower.  It  was  a  circular 
room,  shuttered  and  dark.  For  a  moment 
they  stood  there  silent,  both.  Suddenly  the 
man  ran  to  the  window  and  with  a  thrust  of  his 
shoulder  splintered  the  wrooden  shudders  and 
the  dingy  glass.  The  sunlight  streamed  in; 
the  red  evening  light  made  a  path  to  the  lady's 
feet  and  shone  upon  her  face  and  hair.  With 
a  little  gesture  she  threw  back  her  hood  and 
faced  the  man  who  was  her  husband.  Her 
face  and  eyes  were  quiet  and  firm  as  stone  and 
very  cold. 

"It  is  here  your  wife  should  receive  you,"  she 
said. 

Jean  Lorin  had  known ;  and  yet  a  man  may 
know  a  thing  and  not  permit  himself  to  know 
it.  But  now  a  great  pain  blinded  him — a  swift 
anguish  struck  at  his  brain.  It  seemed  that  his 
throat  was  knotted  with  thirst,  while  on  his  lips 
was  the  acrid  taste  of  wine  and  the  savor  of 


blood.  He  seemed  to  be  living  once  more  a 
black  hour  of  the  past,  an  hour  of  war — a  heat- 
clogged  road,  thirst,  a  blazing  village,  an  old 
chateau,  this  room,  this  woman.  With  hag 
gard  eyes  he  looked  up  at  the  lady  who  was  his 
wife. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,"  he  said  hoarsely, 

«T J> 

He  found  no  other  words.  The  lady  waited, 
slim  and  beautiful,  and  cold  as  the  fate  that 
comes  up  out  of  the  past  to  judge  and  con 
demn  ;  and  in  her  eyes  scorn  darkened  slowly  as 
she  looked  at  the  wavering  man  by  the  win 
dow.  Then  she  spoke. 

"It  is  here,  sir,  I  should  receive  you,  yes,  now 
you  are  my  husband,"  and  the  scorn  smoldered 
like  fire  in  her  steady  eyes,  "and  all  my  task  is 
done.  All  done,"  she  added  gloomily,  glanc 
ing  at  the  decayed  walls  and  ruin  about  her. 
"My  father  is  dead,  my  race  is  dead,  the 
France  I  love  is  dead,  and  I  have  no  place  in 
this  new  world.  All  done !" 

So  slight  and  pale  a  girl  she  was,  and  yet  she 
stood  there  calm  and  proud,  as  though  incarn- 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       267, 

ating  the  splendor  and  beauty  of  the  ancestral 
past  upon  which  she  looked  back,  the  glories  of 
the  lords  and  ladies  who  had  laughed  and  loved 
once  in  Montjoie. 

Doubtless  for  an  instant  this  haggard  man 
in  the  window,  this  soldier  of  the  Republic,  was 
very  far  away  from  her  thoughts,  but  his 
thoughts  were  all  on  her.  Or  were  they 
thoughts?  Was  it  not  rather  that  every  fiber 
in  him  throbbed  toward  her  as  sound  throbs 
out  from  a  plucked  harp-string?  The  brain  in 
him  was  the  source  of  innumerable  waves  that 
went  to  her  one  after  the  other — billows  of  im 
pulse — the  very  well-springs  of  his  life  going 
out  to  her  in  wave  after  wave.  Why?  But 
how  should  he  know  why?  These  things  hap 
pen  to  a  man  as  he  goes  through  life.  You 
ride  down  a  street  and  see  a  girl's  face  in  a  win 
dow.  When  you  have  ridden  on  an  hour's 
journey  something  cries  aloud  in  the  soul  of 
you:  ''That  was  she!"  and  you  spur  back  and 
come  again  to  the  house — and  there  is  no  face 
at  the  window.  And  evermore  you  go  through 
life,  heedless  and  aloof,  brooding. 


268   THE  CARNIVAL;  OF  DESTINY 

Now,  Jean  Marie  torin  riding  down 
through  the  years — and  through  how  many 
gray  years  he  and  you  and  I  must  ride  none 
can  say — turned  back,  and,  lo!  the  girl's  face 
was  in  the  window. 

>    "Madame,"     he     said,     "my     wife — Mar 
guerite  !" 

He  was  quite  calm  now.  It  was  enough 
that  he  had  seen  her  again,  that  in  this  woman 
he  had  met  her  once  again  in  the  years  that  he 
knew  her ;  nothing  else  mattered. 

Hearing  these  words,  the  lady  drew  back 
with  a  startled  look  on  her  face,  as  though  she 
had  heard  a  voice  at  once  new  and  dimly  famil 
iar. 

"Mjr  wife — Marguerite,"  he  repeated 
gently,  but  he  did  not  approach  her,  "you  have 
misjudged  me  and  you  are  right.  I  have  con 
demned  myself.  That,  too,  is  right.  I  do  not 
mean  that  my  life  will  pay  my  debt.  Perhaps 
it  will — perhaps  it  is  all  folly,  the  debt  and  the 
life." 

The  lady  took  a  step  toward  him,  then 
paused. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       269 

"Comedy  now?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"If  life  is  a  comedy,"  he  answered  gently,  "I 
do  not  know.  There  can  be  no  heroism  in 
throwing  one  life  away  when  we  have  so  many 
—when  it  is  all  an  endless  coming  and  going. 
You  know,  Marguerite,  this  is  not  the  first  time 
we  have  met." 

She  stared  at  him. 

"N"or  the  second  nor  the  third  time  we  have 
met.  ]\To,"  he  added  softly,  "nor  will  it  be  the 
last  time." 

Always  he  stood  by  the  window.  She 
joined  him  there  and  coldly  she  pointed  down 
into  the  courtyard. 

"Look,"  she  said,  "and  judge  whether  it  be 
the  last  time.  Those  men  are  mine,  all  faith 
ful  to  me,  the  only  faithful  ones  left.  That 
man  yonder  is  Chopin.  He  does  not  hate  you 
but  he  hates  your  crime.  It  is  for  the  last 
time ;  that  is  why  they  are  here.  Now,  sir,  you 
understand." 

"I  understood  long  ago,"  said  Jean  Lorin 
quietly.  He  took  the  traveling  pistols  from 
his  belt  and  dropped  them  from  the  window. 


270     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

They  clattered  down  on  the  flags  of  the  court 
yard.  "But  for  the  last  time?  Perhaps  you 
mean  for  the  last  time  in  this  life?  Then  you 
are  right,  Marguerite.  But  in  the  other  years 
I  shall  come  to  you  as  I  did  in  the  past."  He 
drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  threw  back  his 
head  impatiently.  ' 'Do  you  remember?  You 
must  remember,  Marguerite" — the  girl's  face 
was  frightened,  but  she  looked  at  him  with 
searching,  helpful  eyes — "when  I  first  loved 
you — when  we  loved  each  other  together  in  the 
dark  world  and  then  again  and  again.  I  have 
always  loved  you.  Why,  you  are  the  woman !" 
he  cried  wonderingly,  and  took  her  hands  and 
stared  into  her  eyes  with  amazed  certainty. 
"You  are  she!  Don't  you  remember?" 

The  lady  shivered  a  little  when  he  touched 
her  and  went  back  from  him,  crying  "Oh!  oh!" 
and  a  hunted  look  came  into  her  face  as  she 
glanced  about  the  room.  Jean  Lorin  knelt 
swiftly  and  kissed  the  rim  of  her  white  gown; 
then  he  rose  and  spread  his  big  arms  with  a 
gesture  of  helplessness.  He  drew  himself  up 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT        271 

and  laughed  falsely,  as  one  who  gets  himself 
together. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse,  there  must  be  ghosts 
in  your  old  castle  and  they  have  got  into  my 
brain.  Forgive  me,"  he  said  with  a  strained 
attempt  at  courtesy.  "Will  you  permit  me  to 
take  my  leave?  I  know  my  way  to  the  court 
yard." 

He  bowed  and  went  to  the  door.  There  he 
turned  and  looked  at  her  with  quiet  and  not 
hopeless  eyes,  and  his  voice  as  he  spoke  a  few 
\vords  was  quite  his  own. 

What  he  said  was,  "Good-by,  dear  one, 
good-by!" 

She  heard  his  steady  footsteps  in  the  dusky; 
rooms  beyond.  She  swayed  a  little  on  her  feet 
and  put  her  hands  up  to  her  temples.  Her 
thought  was — but  no,  neither  you  nor  I  know 
her  thought.  Something  ached  in  her;  there 
was  a  fluttering  storm  in  her  heart  and  in  her 
brain,  and  her  mouth  was  parched  and  there 
was  a  salt  taste  on  her  lips.  So  for  a  moment 
she  swayed  there  in  the  fading  sunlight. 


272     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Then  of  a  sudden  she  knew  that  she  heard  no 
longer  his  footsteps — that  he  had  gone. 

With  a  strange  little  strangled  cry  of  "Oh! 
ohl"  she  sped  through  the  dim  chambers  and 
winding  halls  and  ran  down  the  stone  staircase 
and  threw  herself  in  front  of  a  grim  man  who 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

i  "No!  no!  no!"  she  cried,  gasping  out  the 
words  and  making  swift  gestures  with  her 
little  hands.  "No,  Chopin — no!  no!  This  is 
my  husband!  I — " 

The  white  lady  staggered  and  the  words 
choked  in  her  throat.  Then  she  felt  an  arm — 
could  it  have  been  an  arm  that  throbbed  so 
and  gave  her  strength  and  life? — the  arm  of 
her  husband  about  her,  and  she  stood  quite 
erect  and  said  with  her  pretty,  stately  air : 

"Why,  my  dear  friends,  this  is  Monsieur  le 
Comte,  my  husband." 

The  sullen  men  pulled  off  their  hats  and 
looked  at  each  other,  and  smiles  creased  their 
faces. 

"And,  Chopin,"  said  the  lady  of  Montjoie, 
with  pretty  thoughtfulness,  "you  may  put  up 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GIFT       273 

the  horses.     We  are  not  going  on  to-night. 
We  have  decided  to  stay." 

So  the  squealing  grays  were  bundled  into 
the  musty  stables  and  there  were  lights  in  the 
old  chateau. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  BLACK  FUMES 


VIII 

A  TENEMENT  OF  BLACK  FUMES 
I 

HE  could  not  remember  a  time  when  he  had 
not  loved  her.  He  had  watched  her  grow 
from  babyhood  into  childhood.  She  was  still 
a  child,  only  fourteen  when  they  were  mar 
ried.  He  was  only  a  little  further  on  toward 
manhood  at  that  time — this  slim,  dark  lad  of 
twenty-two.  Even  then,  however,  he  had 
written  imperishable  poems  and  had  eaten  of 
the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  good  and  evil.  He  was 
as  one  who  walked  upon  the  edge  of  life. 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  daily  events  did  not  in 
terest  him,  for  beyond  them  he  saw  mysteri 
ous  depths,  haunted  with  shadows  of  the  long 
ago  and  the  far-away — vague  phantoms  of 
beauty  and  horror.  He  led  his  child-wife  with 
him  into  this  dark  country,  where  the  thing 
that  is  seems  only  the  shadow  of  what  may  be. 

277 


278     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

They  wandered  there  together.  Hand  in 
hand  they  went  through  the  Valley  of  Many 
Colored  Grass  where  the  ruby-red  asphodels 
grow.  They  entered  the  desolate  domain  of 
silence,  where  there  was  no  shadow  of  sound; 
and  another  time  they  found  themselves  in  an 
ebony  chamber  and  a  corpse-like  thing  stood 
there,  and  this  was  Death.  Once  having 
crossed  this  borderland  of  mystery,  which  lies 
at  the  rim  of  human  life,  they  came  upon  a 
gray  house  by  a  black  and  lurid  tarn;  there 
they  dwelt  for  many  days  and  their  guest-fel 
low  was  Fear. 

Many  and  adventurous  were  their  journey- 
ings;  strange  shapes  grew  out  of  the  twilight 
and  questioned  them;  bodiless  voices  went 
shrieking  past  them;  it  was  very  terrible,  and 
the  child-wife  clung  close  to  him — very  close. 

Now  and  then  they  would  hear  music,  so  sad 
and  sweet — intolerably  sad — that  they  would 
weep  together.  Then  hand  in  hand  they 
would  grope  their  way  back  to  the  borderland 
and  come  out  again  into  daily  life.  At  these 
times  the  man  was  haggard  and  his  wild  eyes 


were  dark  with  unspeakable  thought;  but  the 
girl-wife  would  lift  to  him  a  face  serene  and 
quiet  as  a  flower.  So  long  they  went  hand 
in  hand  she  cared  not  though  they  journeyed 
with  chimsera.  Always  her  eyes  were  con 
fident  and  true,  but  in  the  years  her  face  grew 
very  white  and  thin  and  the  girlishness  fell 
away  from  her. 

Not  many  years  went  by.  Five  of  them 
passed,  and  she  had  grown  so  feeble  bodily 
that  she  could  scarcely  walk  the  length  of  the 
naked  little  house  wherein  they  hid  them 
selves;  then  there  were  five  more  years,  when 
she  lay  upon  the  bed — the  blue  veins  hardly 
throbbing  in  her  wasted  temples,  the  little 
hands  clay-cold  and  almost  transparent,  folded 
on  her  breast. 

During  these  long  years  he  went  out  into 
the  world  and  fought  as  men  must  fight  for  a 
crust.  He  fought  madly  as  one  who  uproots 
an  oak  that  he  may  gather  a  few  acorns  and 
bear  them  home.  When  he  passed  in  the 
street — this  haggard  creature  with  the  wild, 
dark  eyes — respectable  men,  householders, 


280    THE  CARNIVAL  DP  DESTINY 

well-doers,  self-respecting  poets,  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  said:  "He  is  mad!" 

Others  threw  stones  at  him  or  spat  slyly  at 
him  as  he  went  by.  He,  perhaps,  would  turn 
upon  them  with  curses  that  blistered  them  like 
flame;  or  unheeding,  would  go  his  way — fol 
lowing  a  beckoning  hand  they  could  not  see — 
home  to  the  naked  little  house  and  the  woman 
who  had  been  dying  so  long  and  who  lived 
only  because  they  willed  she  should  live.  And 
she  would  put  her  cold  hand  on  his  forehead 
and  whisper  her  love.  Then  the  gloom  would 
fade  from  his  eyes.  The  mask  he  wore  to 
front  the  world  with  would  drop  from  his  face. 

He  would  read  to  her  from  an  old  book  of 
visionary  and  forgotten  lore,  until  some  sud 
den  phrase  would  leap  out,  compelling  and 
alive — a  mystic  phrase  that  would  open  the 
gates  of  ivory  or  basalt,  and  they  would  go 
out  through  the  gate  into  the  misty  mid-re 
gion  which  floats  between  this  life  and  the 
next. 

Always  paler;  the  blue  veins  in  the  temples 
beating  more  faintly,  the  woman  struggled 


back  into  the  daily  world.  Death  came  very 
near  to  her  many  times ;  again — again,  and  yet 
again — death  stooped  to  take  her,  but  the  man, 
kneeling  at  her  bedside,  folded  her  in  his  love 
and  held  her  safe. 

Ten  years;  they  were  more  than  man  and 
woman,  more  than  man  and  wife;  they  had 
journeyed  so  often  across  the  borderland — so 
many  times  they  had  gone  down  into  the  val 
ley  where  the  shadows  crowd  each  other — to 
gether  they  had  entered  so  often  the  ebony 
chamber,  that  neither  knew  where  self  began 
and  love  ended. 

One  night  he  was  brooding  by  her  bedside; 
for  a  moment  his  thoughts  had  gone  out  into 
the  streets  and  lanes — the  roaring  workshops 
of  life.  She  was  lying  very  quiet,  the  wan 
hands  folded,  the  big  melancholy  eyes  half 
shut.  Even  at  that  moment  a  wind  blew  out 
of  a  cloud  and  chilled  her,  and  that  was  death ; 
but  what  of  her  could  not  die  went  otherwhere, 
and  highborn  kinsmen  who  awaited  her  com 
ing  met  her  at  the  gates  of  the  dim,  new  world 
and  led  her  in. 


282    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

In  the  little  naked  house  the  man  was  left 
alone.  He  looked  at  the  pallid,  shrunken 
thing  on  the  bed  and  knew  it  was  not  she. 
He  cried  aloud  and  rushed  out  into  the 
night. 

In  the  black  hollow  of  the  night  were  wind 
and  wintry  rain  and  the  sound  of  voices  wail 
ing. 

H 

WOMEN  wore  crinoline;  gentlemen  wore 
tight  trousers,  stocks  and  high-necked  coats 
with  gilt  buttons ;  girl-babies  were  never  short- 
coated  but  went  gowned  through  life;  stage 
coaches  ran  from  Bowling  Green  up  to  Cor 
poral  Thompson's  "Madison  Cottage;"  Union 
Square  was  the  site  of  a  powder  house  and  a 
potter's  field;  the  first  telegraph  line  carried 
fitful  messages  to  Albany;  elderly  gentlemen 
still  took  snuff  and  told  reminiscences  of  the 
war  of  1812;  shop-boys  and  pallid  girls  quoted 
Longfellow — in  a  word  it  was  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1849,  in  the  good  city  of  New  York, 
William  F.  Havemeyer,  mayor. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     283 

It  was  a  warm  evening  a  few  days  before 
the  Fourth  of  July. 

Snug-waisted  gentlemen  strolled  about  the 
shady  walks  of  City  Hall  Park.  Those  who 
had  evil  consciences  looked  askance  at  the 
Bridewell  and  the  gaol.  The  aesthetically 
minded  crossed  the  park  toward  John  Van- 
derlyn's  Rotunda — for  this  amiable  little  in- 
grate  was  then  exploiting  the  artistic  educa 
tion  Colonel  Aaron  Burr  had  given  him  in 
Paris  and  Rome;  or  sauntered  southward  to 
the  old  Park  Theater,  or  risked  themselves  in 
the  far  wilds  of  Astor  Place. 

Down  Broadway  a  bit  and  one  street  below 
the  park  there  was  a  broad,  dingy  basement, 
with  sanded  floor  and  wooden  chairs  and 
tables.  It  reeked  with  tobacco  smoke.  It 
smelled  of  stale  beer  and  faded  alcoholic 
drinks.  The  oil  lamps  flickered  there  over  a 
narrow  bar,  in  front  of  which  stood  a  stout, 
rosy,  gouty,  slippered  old  German  in  a  greasy 
coat  and  bulging  shoes — a  puffy  old  man,  who 
wore  gaudy  rings  and  a  thick  watch-chain. 

Through  the  smoke  he  surveyed  his  clients. 


284     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY; 

At  one  table — to  the  right  as  you  came 
down  the  stairs — three  men  were  seated, 
drinking  whiskey  and  water.  One  of  them 
was  a  well-looking  heavy- jowled  man  of  forty, 
with  pleasant  eyes  and  brown  curling  hair. 
He  was  "quite  the  gentleman"  as  the  saying 
goes,  which  means  just  this:  his  manner  was 
so  gentlemanly  that  it  was  evidently  acquired 
ten  years  later  than  it  should  have  been.  He 
raised  a  deprecatory  hand,  and,  with  a  win 
ning  intellectual  smile,  said : 

"No,  Stoddard,  no — really,  I  can't  let  you 
say  that.  You  know  Poe  is  my  friend." 

"Bah!"  said  Stoddard.  That  was  not  the 
word  he  used,  but  having  made  his  exclamation 
he  spat  on  the  floor  and  sucked  his  pipe. 

He  was  a  big-shouldered  man,  youngish, 
bearded,  with  the  hardy  look  of  a  peasant  in  his 
cold,  harsh  face.  Having  blown  out  a  cloud 
of  smoke  he  said: 

"He's  a  damned  villain.  I'm  a  poet,  too, 
you  know  it,  Willis!  Bayard  Taylor  knows 
it!  I  came  from  a  blacksmith  shop — well, 
what  of  it?" 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     285 

"All  the  more  credit,  dear  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Willis  with  his  gentlemanly  air;  "was  not  Gif- 
ford  a  cobbler  and  Master  Keats  an  apothe 
cary?" 

"Well,  I  pay  my  debts,  don't  I?"  asked  the 
peasant-faced  man,  knocking  his  pipe  against 
his  knuckles,  "and  do  I  bring  ruin  upon  inno 
cent  women?  Do  I?  I  tell  you,  Poe  is  a 
viper!  Don't  you  argue  with  me!  He's  a 
viper.  When  the  women  run  after  a  little 
black-visaged  rogue  like  him,  you  can  tell 
there's  something  wrong  about  him.  Think 
of  that  poor  woman  up  in  New  England — the 
one  who  writes  verses — and  his  own  wife — it's 
my  opinion  he  killed  her." 

"Really,  Mr.  Stoddard,  you  are  too  em 
phatic,"  said  the  gentlemanly  poet.  "Now  I 
think  Poe  may  perhaps  lack  the  real  poetic 
fire,  but  as  a  man,  as  a  gentleman,"  said  Mr. 
Willis,  taking  up  his  glass  of  whiskey  and 
water  and  sipping  it  prettily,  "Poe  is  not  to  be 
criticized — though  I  admit  that  his  manner  is 
a  trifle  Southern.  Still,  he's  a  gentleman — 
good  blood — good  blood;  he  has  it — the  real 


286    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

thing,  the  e Je  ne  sals  quoi3 — the  'I  dinna  ken' 
— the  manner!  As  a  writer,  of  course,  well — 
I'm  afraid  he's  not  quite  sane." 

"Sane!"  said  Stoddard.  "He's  a  damned 
drunken  dog." 

The  third  man  at  the  table  had  not  spoken, 
though  he  seemed  to  be  listening  with  an 
amused  air.  He  was  a  short  fat  fellow  of 
sixty,  with  a  big,  massive  head  and  matted 
gray  hair  falling  over  his  neck  and  shoulders; 
wise,  piercing  eyes  looked  out  from  under  his 
shaggy,  gray  brows.  He  threw  back  his  big 
head,  expanded  his  chest  and  roared:  "Poets 
— poets!  Stop  barking  at  my  friend,  the 
poet!" 

"My  learned  Dr.  Francis,"  said  Willis,  "be 
lieve  me— 

"Me  learned  Theban,"  shouted  the  doctor, 
slapping  the  table,  "you  are  all  the  same. 
You  all  hate  each  other.  Every  male  and  fe 
male  poet  of  ye!  Here's  you,  Stoddard — be 
cause  you  write  about  stars  and  dead  babies, 
you  won't  admit  that  Poe  can  write  about  dead 
women  and  the  moon.  And  you,  Willis,  who 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     287 

write  everything  from  Shakespeare  to  Tom 
Moore — d'ye  suppose  because  I  know  Asiatic 
cholera  I'll  not  acknowledge  that  Dr.  Hos- 
sak,  God  bless  him!  knows  more  than  I  do  of 
yellow  fever?  You're  children  all  of  ye,  you 
poets.  Let  Eddie  Poe  be!  Men,  men — but 
he's  in  deeper  water  than  you  know!" 

The  man  who  had  been  a  blacksmith  spat 
over  his  beard. 

"That's  what  I  think  of  him,  Dr.  Francis," 
he  said.  "Did  you  read  what  he  wrote  about 
my  book?  He's  a  drunken  dog  and  a  thief 
and  a  blasphemer,  Poe  is — and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  was  an  atheist." 

As  Stoddard  spoke  there  had  come  down  the 
steps  into  the  smoky  room  a  slim,  swift-footed 
man,  dressed  in  black.  His  long  coat  was  but 
toned  snugly  about  his  slight  figure.  He  wore 
a  black  stock  doubled  severely  about  his  white 
shirt-collar.  In  his  gloved  right  hand  he  car 
ried  a  small  walking-stick.  There  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  this  slight,  youngish  man 
save  his  face — it  was  pale  and  haggard  and 
wonderful;  wild  black  eyes  looked  out  of  it — 


288     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

wonderful  eyes  that  may  have  seen  the  mystery 
at  which  they  who  lie  dead,  wrapped  in  white 
linen  bands,  stare  evermore.  A  haggard,  un 
quiet  face,  framed  in  thick  hair,  soft  and  dark. 

As  he  came  down  the  staircase,  Dr.  Francis 
hailed  him  with  a  merry  shout. 

"Poe !"  he  roared.  "Oh,  it's  Poe — come  here, 
lad!  You  never  came  at  a  better  moment. 
We're  all  sitting  here  blackening  your  char 
acter.  Come  here,  man — I've  just  learned  ye 
were  no  poet." 

Talking  nonsense  of  this  sort  Dr.  Francis 
rose  and  took  Poe  by  the  hand;  always  those 
piercing  old  eyes  of  his  scanned  the  young 
man's  face — with  a  physician's  rare  insight 
and  a  friend's  tenderness;  his  hand  even  clung 
to  Poe's  for  a  while  as  though  he  were  sensing 
the  tides  of  nerve  and  blood  that  beat  there. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Willis,"  said  Poe,  shak 
ing  hands  with  the  gentlemanly  poet. 

"My  friend,  Stoddard,"  said  Willis,  intro 
ducing  the  poet  with  the  pipe. 

"Ah,"  said  Poe. 


"I'm  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Poe,"  said 
the  blacksmith  poet,  holding  out  a  ready  hand, 
"I've  often  heard  of  you— 

"And  talked  of  me,"  said  Poe,  taking  a  chair 
next  to  Dr.  Francis.  "Yes,  I  heard  you  as  I 
came  in.  But  that  sort  of  thing  doesn't  mat 
ter.  How  are  you,  Willis?" 

"That  play  is  killing  me,"  said  Willis,  put 
ting  up  a  white  hand  to  his  heavy  face.  "It  is 
terrible  work!" 

"You  are  right,  Willis,"  Poe  said  sympa 
thetically,  "I  read  your  last  play — Tortesa — 
it  was  terrible  work;  why  do  you  do  it?  " 

"What  will  you  drink,  Edgar?"  Dr.  Fran 
cis  asked  casually. 

"Nothing!  I?  Nothing!"  Poe  answered. 
"I'm  going  up  to  Boston  to-night — a  lecture 
for  the  frog-ponders.  I  wanted  to  bid  you 
good-by,  Doctor,  for  I  thought  I  should  find 
you  here.  Oh,  pay  for  the  drinks  and  come 
away,"  he  added  abruptly. 

He  stood  up  and  shook  hands  with  Willis. 

"Wait,  man,  wait,"  cried  the  doctor.  "I 
move  leisurely — like  a  butterfly.  You,  deuce 


290     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

take  you!  are  as  direct  and  brief  in  your  flights 
as  a  bee." 

"I'll  stay,"  said  Poe,  with  his  sudden  won 
derful  smile,  "if  Willis  will  let  me  recite  those 
Broadway  verses  of  his.  Willis,  you've  never 
done  anything  so  good,  and  you  will  never 
equal  them  no  matter  how  long  you  live. 
That's  true  poetry,  Willis!" 

Leaning  against  the  table,  there  in  the 
smoky  beer  cellar — while  the  author  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  red,  happy  face — Poe  chanted 
aloud,  in  his  low-toned,  silver  voice,  Willis' 
best  poem : 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'Twas  near  the  twilight  tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride — 
Alone  walked  she,  yet  viewlessly 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  honor  charmed  the  air, 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her 

And  called  her  good  as  fair — 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     291 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo. 

Ah,  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 

When  priests  the  selling  do ! 

Now,  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — • 

A  slight  girl,  lily  pale, 

And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 

'Twixt  want  and  scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 

For  this  world's  peace  to  pray — 

For  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way. 

And  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 

By  man  is  cursed  alway. 

A  moment's  silence ;  it  was  broken  by  Stod- 
dard  blowing  through  his  pipe-stem.  Willis 
heaved  himself  out  of  his  chair  and  laid  his 
plump,  white  hand  on  Poe's  shoulder;  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes ;  his  voice  choked  a  little 
as  he  said :  "I  did  think  it  was  a  true  thing — 
but  the  way  you  recited  it  makes  it  truer." 

"It's  poetry,  Willis,"  was  Poe's  answer;  "it 


292    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

is  quiet  and  true  and  real — but  the  end  is  bad. 
The  identical  rimes  of  'way'  and  'alway'  are 
weak.  Why  don't  you  take  the  two  closing 
lines  and  begin  the  last  stanza  with  them. 
Your  climax  would  be  stronger.  Are  you 
ready,  Doctor?" 

Dr.  Francis  had  paid  the  bill  to  the  gouty 
German  by  the  bar;  he  roared  good  night  to 
the  two  poets  and  followed  Poe  up  the  stairs 
to  the  street.  It  was  dark  there,  for  the  twi 
light  had  gone  and  there  was  no  moon;  a  few 
lamps  flickered  here  and  there  among  the 
trees;  the  chief  light  came  from  the  windows 
of  taverns  and  shops.  Arm  in  arm  the  two 
men  went  up  Broadway. 

Dr.  Francis  spoke  first. 

"Do  you  sleep  better  now?"  he  asked. 

"Yes — I  sleep,"  Poe  replied. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  the  doctor  thrusting  his  boisterous 
shoulders  to  right  and  left,  Poe  stepping  nerv 
ously. 

"Turn  here,"  said  Poe  abruptly,  leading  the 
way  down  a  dark  street  toward  the  river; 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     293 

"there  are  too  many  people  in  Broadway — I 
don't  like  people  to  rub  against  me." 

Silence  again  for  a  little  while;  the  doctor 
kept  his  hand  locked  on  his  friend's  slender 
arm — he  could  feel  the  pulse  of  vein  and  nerve 
in  it. 

"It's  a  queer  thing — sleep  is  a  queer  thing," 
Poe  said  softly.  "You  know,  Doctor,  before 
she  died  how  I  hungered  and  yearned  and 
fought  for  sleep !  Then  it  was  darkness — the 
blank  rest.  Then  I  could  sleep  for  a  few 
hours  and  forget  her  poor  wasted  body — the 
blue  veins  in  her  temples — her  terrified  eyes. 
But  now  when  I  fall  asleep  I  go  through  every 
waking  hour  that  I  lived  with  her.  Can  you 
explain  that,  Doctor?  There  must  be  a  scien 
tific  reason.  You  know  I  am  not  a  fool.  But 
why  is  it,  Doctor,  I  am  alive  now  only  when  I 
am  asleep?  Then  she  and  I  walk  and  talk 
together — you  know  she  was  my  cousin — as 
we  did  when  we  were  children.  Last  night 
she  came  into  my  sleep  just  as  when  she  was 
fourteen  years  of  age.  And  just  as  we  did  a 
dozen  years  ago  we  went  away  quietly;  to- 


294     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

gether  through  the  sunny  street  to  be  married. 
Her  eyes  were  just  the  same — sad  and  true, 
full  of  fear  and  trust.  She  repeated  the  same 
words:  'Edgar,  we  will  never  part!' 

"Now  I  am  afraid  to  sleep.  But  I  live  only 
when  I  dream.  Here  as  I  walk  with  you— 
Thursday  when  I  lecture  to  them  on  poetry 
— the  frog-pond  people — I  shall  be  an  eter 
nity  away  from  myself.  I  tell  you,"  cried  the 
younger  man,  throwing  up  his  arms  with  a 
mad  gesture,  "that  I  live  only  in  my  dreams — 
and  that  is  hell!  It  is  hell,  Dr.  Francis,"  he 
added. 

"Don't  walk  so  fast,  Ed,"  said  the  doctor. 
"I'm  not  so  young  as  I  was  in  1812.  Hon 
estly  since  you  ask  me,  I  think  you've  been 
brooding  too  much.  You  should  not  have 
stayed  in  Fordham  after  your  wife  died.  You 
should  have  looked  up  your  friends— 

"Friends,"  said  Poe.  "Griswold  and  Wil 
lis  and  Graham  and — " 

"And  me,"  said  Dr.  Francis  bluntly. 

"Yes,  I  should  have  come  to  you,"  Poe  an 
swered  gently,  "but  oh,  John,  I  could  not  talk 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     295 

to  you.  I  wanted  to  lie  down  in  the  dark  and 
think." 

"A  bad  thing,  Ed." 

"Is  it  ?  That  was  what  I  said  to  myself.  I 
tried  not  to  sleep.  I  wrote,  wrote,  wrote — so 
I  might  not  sleep  and  find  her  in  my  dreams. 
I  bent  all  my  mind  to  the  work  and  I  wrote 
'Eureka';  and  I  made  science  my  handmaid 
and  she  and  I  went  out  together  in  the  uni 
verse  to  find  God;  and  wTe  did  not  find  God, 
but  we  found  the  absolute,  unconditional  force 
that  creates — the  Eternal  Power.  And  when 
I  had  finished  I  knew  that  the  last  word  had 
been  said,  that  I  had  proved  all,  that  I  had 
found  the  truth  which  cannot  die." 

He  paused  a  second  and  added  slowly :  "Or 
if  by  any  means  it  be  now  trodden  down  so  that 
it  die,  it  will  rise  again  to  life  everlasting." 

"What  science  says  is  the  only  truth,"  said 
Dr.  Francis  in  his  thick,  honest  voice,  "and 
if  science  was  your  handmaid— 

Poe  turned  his  wild  eyes  on  his  friend ;  then 
he  laughed  aloud  in  the  night. 

"She  who  died  wrote  it,  not  I,"  he  cried 


madly.  "She — not  I!  She  was  my  hand 
maiden — not  science,  but  she !  When  the  work 
was  done  I  said  to  myself:  'Now  here  is  a 
year's  work  and  it  is  finished ;  and  she  has  been 
dead  for  a  year  and  that  is  finished.'  And  so, 
John,  I  lay  down  to  sleep.  Then  she  came. 
I  saw  her  awful  eyes,  and  I  knew  that  I  had 
written  only  what  she  knew;  only  that,  John 
Francis.  She  knew,  and  I  was  the  scribe  who 
wrote.  I  think  she  is  only  in  Fordham,  John. 
As  a  scientific  man,  isn't  that  what  you  think? 
Or  in  'Maryland — she  might  be  there,  because 
you  know  that  was  where  we  lived  when  she  was 
a  little  girl." 

Poe's  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper;  his  slim 
body  shook  as  he  leaned  against  the  doctor's 
shoulder.  Doctor  Francis  spoke  now  and  then 
— a  mere  commonplace  word : 

"Look  out  for  the  crossing,  Ed — there's  a 
step  here,"  or  "all  this  comes  from  too  much 
solitude." 

Poe  said :  "The  only  thing  I  am  afraid  of  is 
that  my  dreams  will  come  to  me  when  I  am 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     297 

awake.  That  would  be  hell — it  would  be  a  tor 
ment  worse  than  hell." 

"Look  here,  Poe,"  said  Doctor  Francis,  in 
his  matter-of-fact  way — but  always  he  studied 
his  friend  with  observing,  quiet  eyes.  "When 
does  that  Boston  lecture  take  place?  Thurs 
day  ?  And  you  take  the  boat  to-night?  Good. 
I'll  go  with  you." 

Poe  hesitated. 

"That's  tremendously  good  of  you,  Francis, 
but  I'm  not  going  direct  to  Boston,"  he  said. 

The  old  doctor  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  laughed. 

"What  is  it  now?"  he  asked. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  Helen,"  the  young 
man  said  softly,  as  though  he  feared  he  might 
be  overheard. 

They  were  in  a  muddy  street  and  in  front  of 
them  was  the  dock  where  the  packet  lay.  Not 
until  they  were  near  the  gang-plank  of  the  boat 
did  Doctor  Francis  speak ;  it  was  as  though  he 
had  been  asked  to  diagnose  a  difficult  case  and 
were  waiting  to  study  every  symptom.  Ab- 


298     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

ruptly  he  reached  out  and  caught  Poe's  hand 
in  his. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  "the  letter  is  a  better 
physician  than  I  can  be." 

"Good  night,"  Poe  repeated. 

In  a  few  moments  the  boat  was  out  on  the 
lift  of  the  tide.  Little  by  little  the  lights  of 
New  York  faded  in  the  fog.  Overhead  the 
sky  was  dark  and  hollow  as  a  cup — far  up  in 
the  dome  of  it  one  star  shone  faintly. 

Ill 

AN  old  tree-lined  street  in  an  old  New  Eng 
land  village;  back  among  the  trees  a  garden 
with  roses  and  a  gabled  house — an  antique 
house  that  spoke  of  comfort  and  restful  days. 

In  the  warm  twilight  a  young  looking 
woman  went  to  and  fro  among  the  roses.  She 
was  dressed  all  in  white.  Her  face  was  hand 
some  rather  than  pretty;  it  was  finely  cut  and 
race  and  intelligence — perhaps  too  much  in 
telligence — showed  in  every  outline  of  it. 
There  was  a  nimiety  of  thought  in  the  large 
gray  eyes;  an  excess  of  feeling  about  the  thin 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     299 

lips  and  the  delicate  chin.  She  was  either  more 
or  less  than  woman.  Her  thoughts  went  away 
from  woman's  affairs  in  the  world.  She 
hunted  the  dream.  So  all  her  life  she  had  writ 
ten  strange  little  verses  in  which  the  old 
rhythms  and  the  old  men-made  images  rang 
and  shone;  and  this  faculty  of  rhyme,  she  felt 
had  made  her  more  or  less  than  woman.  She 
had  sung  to  her  roses;  she  had  chanted  to  her 
canary  birds;  she  had  berhymed  armored 
knighthood  and  sonneted  love ;  and  as  the  years 
swept  her  on  into  youthlessness  she  had  grown 
pale  and  ghostly  there  in  the  old  garden  of  the 
old  house  in  the  old  New  England  village.  Her 
poems  got  abroad  into  the  world.  Young  girls 
loved  them :  a  few  men — as  one  might  sweep  a 
bow  with  his  plumed  hat  to  Nell  Gwynn  in  her 
sedan-chair — had  praised  her  poems.  So  she 
had  the  guerdon  of  an  hour's  fame. 

Once  in  a  midnight  long  ago  she  lay  in  the 
moonlight  among  the  roses,  lifting  her  gray 
unsatisfied  eyes  to  the  stars,  dreaming  of  a  love 
that  never  was  known  in  the  old  New  England 
village — such  love  as  knights  and  warriors  and 


300     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

savage,  blond  men  of  the  dead  days  might  have 
known;  and  she  pictured  to  herself  with  sud 
den  sincerity  how  passionately  she  would  have 
welcomed  the  fierce  and  kiss-hungry  knight 
who  should  have  ridden  down  out  of  the  years 
to  claim  her ;  so  thinking,  she  glanced  with  level 
eyes  across  the  garden  and  saw  a  slim,  dark 
man,  who  stared  at  her  with  dark,  intense  eyes. 
She  thought  she  saw  love  in  his  eyes;  she 
thought  she  read  there  a  turmoil  of  savage  pas 
sion  that  Lancelot  never  knew ;  but  she  started 
up  with  maidenly  fear  and  arranged  her  dis 
ordered  crinoline. 

With  hardly  a  backward  glance  she  fled  to 
the  shelter  of  the  old  house. 

All  that  night  she  lay  sleepless  in  her  bed, 
haunted,  flushed — perturbed  as  Susannah 
when  old  men  peered  at  her  through  the  trees 
— wondering. 

The  next  day  brought  her  a  letter.  It  was 
written  in  a  microscopic  hand  on  small  slips  of 
paper.  The  letter  was  in  verse. 

Reading  the  lines,  life  turned  on  its  axis 
for  the  lonely  maiden  poet  in  the  old  house  in 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     301 

the  old  town  in  New  England ;  she  learned  that 
the  poet  was  a  dark,  unhappy  Poe,  whose  glory 
was  like  the  flicker  of  lightning  in  a  black  cloud. 
He,  going  his  way,  might  have  forgotten  the 
midnight  moment  that  had  given  birth  to  his 
"Verses  to  Helen."  Helen  could  never  for 
get. 

She  wrote  to  him — strange  letters  in  which 
she  exposed  the  facets  of  her  soul.  And  when 
Poe  went  down  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
— where  he  had  buried  the  young  wife  he  loved 
and  the  world  rocked  under  his  feet — she  called 
to  him  to  come  to  her. 

Now  in  the  twilight  she  went  to  and  fro 
among  the  roses,  waiting. 

The  garden  gate  clicked  and  then  swung  to 
with  a  dull  shock ;  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes ;  not 
until  Poe  stood  before  her  with  outstretched 
hands  did  she  raise  her  face. 

"Helen!"  he  said. 

A  woman  may  have  gone  through  thirty 
years  of  life  and  volumes  of  poetry,  always 
there  is  some  one  who  can  speak  her  name  in  a 
tone  so  intimate  that  the  blood  leaps  in  her  and 


she  is  only  the  woman  who  loves.  She  wavered 
toward  him,  a  mere  white  thing  of  love  and  ab 
negation.  She  whispered  his  name  and  gave 
him  her  slim,  white  hands. 

"Edgar,"  she  said. 

"Your  eyes,  Helen,"  he  said,  "they  are  my 
ministers — through  these  dark  months  they 
have  given  me  light  and  hope — Helen,  your 
dear,  gray  eyes!  It  is  good  to  love  you.  I 
thought  I  could  not  live — or  love,  for  it  is  the 
same  thing — any  more;  but  now,  Helen — !" 

She  was  very  pale ;  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
she  felt  as  though  something  dark  and  fiery 
wrapped  her  round — 

"Helen!"  he  cried,  and  then,  "Oh!  Oh! 
God!"  and  threw  her  from  him. 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  face  and  muttered 
something.  Then  he  drew  himself  up  with 
strenuous  self-control  and  looked  to  right  and 
left,  scanning  the  twilight. 

Helen  had  staggered  back  a  little  space. 
She  stood  quite  still  now,  looking  at  him  with 
frightened  eyes.  He  went  up  to  her  very, 
gently. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     303 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said. 

Then  his  eyes  met  hers.  But  they  were  not 
her  eyes.  Were  these  Helen's  gray,  maiden 
eyes  looking  at  him  in  the  twilight?  Poe 
steadied  himself — for  it  was  only  by  an  effort 
that  he  kept  control  of  his  mind — and  said 
again : 

"Forgive  me,  Helen." 

She  said  softly:  "Edgar!"  and  then  he 
knew  that  it  was  not  her  voice  that  had  spoken, 
and  that  he  was  not  looking  into  her  eyes — for 
the  voice  and  the  eyes  were  those  of  the  woman 
who  had  gone  out  of  his  life  and  whose  body 
lay  in  the  brown  earth  far  away  with  worms 
for  bedfellows. 

So  he  shrieked  aloud  to  God  (though  he 
knew  there  was  no  God)  and  fled  away  from 
the  old  garden  and  the  roses  and  the  maiden 
who  stood  there,  a  mere  white  line  wavering, 
until  she  fell  on  her  face  in  the  twilight. 

Twilight  and  falling  rose-petals,  the  wet 
grass  and  a  woman  sobbing  there,  sobbing — = 
that  was  all. 


304 


IV 

THAT  new  invention  the  electric  telegraph, 
carried  a  message  to  Dr.  John  W.  Francis  of 
New  York.  He  shook  his  leonine,  gray  head, 
growled  anathema  and  obeyed. 

The  summons  took  him  to  the  dock  where  the 
Boston  boat  came  in. 

First  of  all  the  passengers  Poe  came  running 
down  the  gang-plank — a  mad-eyed,  chalk- 
faced,  laughing  figure  of  a  man. 

"Doc,"  he  cried,  "Doc!  my  Theban — sana 
mens — I'm  glad  to  see  a  sane  man.  There  is 
no  credit  in  a  stupid  fellow's  being  sane;  but 
you,  John,  are  a  wonderful  chap — you've  got  a 
brain  and  yet  you  are  sane  as  a  cabbage.  I  ad 
mire  you,  Doc!" 

Poe  was  full  of  gesticulation;  every  nerve 
in  him  twitched.  Another  man  than  Dr. 
Francis  would  have  said  he  was  drunk  with 
liquor  or  drugs.  The  old  physician  knew  bet 
ter.  He  was  well  aware  that  there  are  certain 
nerve-centers  that  respond  more  readily  to 
stark  emotion  than  to  hashish  or  wine.  He 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     305 

locked  his  friend's  arm  under  his  own  stout 
hand  and  led  him  away,  saying : 

"Leave  your  luggage,  Poe,  you  can  get  it  to 
morrow — we'll  walk  and  talk." 

The  street  was  dim  and  muddy ;  the  two  men 
went  arm  in  arm;  always  Poe  talked,  in  a  high- 
keyed  voice  singularly  unlike  his  own — his 
words,  too  were  coarser  and  more  free  than 
usual. 

"I've  thought  it  all  out,  Doc,"  he  said;  "when 
I  wrote  'Eureka'  I  did  not  know — now  I  know. 
We  are  not  men.  We  are  hybrids.  Listen — • 
we  are  a  cross  between  ghost  and  plant.  The 
Eternal  Lie  beckons  to  us  and  bids  us  come  up 
to  the  stars.  We  can't  go — we  can't  get  loose 
—for  our  roots  are  down  in  the  earth  where  the 
worms  crawl.  We  are  neither  the  sedge  nor 
the  firefly.  We  are  the  one  discord  in  nature, 
we  men.  We  are  neither  beasts  nor  gods. 
Unless  we  are  sane,  John — then,  damn  it,  we 
are  beasts.  But  to  have  the  other  thing  in  you ! 
The  firefly,  John— the  ghost—" 

Near  the  river  and  not  far  from  the  old 
church  there  was  a  dingy  tavern  known  as  "The 


Sailor's  Snug  Harbor";  as  they  came  in  front 
of  it,  Poe  dragged  his  friend  in,  and  found  a 
place  near  the  rickety  table  near  the  door.  He 
ordered  some  ale;  a  lurching  fellow  brought 
them  a  jug  and  two  glasses. 

"I'm  thirsty  to-night,"  said  Poe,  "I'm  on 
fire—" 

At  the  back  of  the  room  a  few  longshoremen 
were  drinking  and  quarreling  over  cards. 
Where  Dr.  Francis  and  his  friend  sat  there  was 
a  small  zone  of  silence. 

"You've  had  exciting  days  of  it,"  the  doctor 
said;  "how  did  the  lecture  go?" 

"I  did  them — the  confounded  frog-pon- 
dians!"  said  Poe.  "I  didn't  lecture.  The 
mere  expectation  that  I  would  was  too  good 
for  them.  No." 

Poe  took  off  his  mug  of  ale. 

"And  Helen?"  Dr.  Francis  asked. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you  to  speak  her  name," 
Poe  answered,  drooping  over  the  table,  and 
supporting  his  head  with  his  left  hand.  "I  was 
waiting,  Doc.  Yes,  I  went  to  see  her,  John," 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     307 

he  added  with  an  abrupt  toss  of  his  head,  "I  am 
sane  am  I  not?" 

"Saner  than  I  am,  Edgar,"  said  Dr.  Fran 
cis,  "because  you  see  more  than  I  do.  Control 
yourself,  my  boy — what  happened?" 

"I  went  to  Helen.  You  know  if  I  love  her, 
John!  Perhaps  you  don't  know.  Indeed  I 
don't  know,"  said  Poe;  "no,  I  do  not  know. 
But  I  thought  I  loved  Helen.  And  I  went  to 
her  and  said:  'Helen,  I  love  you.' ' 

Poe  paused  and  drooped  again  over  the 
table. 

"Well?" 

"It  wasn't  she,"  Poe  answered  in  a  dull 
whisper,  "it  wasn't  she — her  voice,  her  eyes, 
they  were  my  wife's  eyes  and  her  voice — and 
she  is  dead.  You  know  she  is  two  years  dead, 
John!  But  she  spoke,  and  the  eyes  were  her 
eyes — just  as  she  looked  that  night  when  she 
said  'forever — forever!' ' 

The  physician  scrutinized  the  hands  and 
darkling  face  of  the  man,  as  one  looks  at  a  curi 
ous  pathological  case. 


308    THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

"That's  not  uncommon,"  lie  began  sooth 
ingly. 

"Uncommon!"  his  young  friend  cried,  "no, 
how  can  it  be — the  resemblance  of  eyes  and 
voice — that  is  common.  Everything  resembles 
something  else." 

"You  have  been  brooding  over  your  wife— 
you  have  dreamed  of  her  eyes  and  voice — ' 

"It  was  not  that,  John,"  said  Poe  softly,  "she 
looked  at  me  and  it  was  she  who  spoke  to  me— 
and  she  stood  between  me  and  Helen.  I 
couldn't  tell  this  to  any  one  but  you,  Francis, 
could  I  ?  Even  you  think  that  I  have  been  de 
ceived.  I  would  to  God  I  had!  Don't  you 
see  what  it  means  to  me?  Ghost  and  plant — 
half  of  me  trailing  the  sky  with  her  and  the 
other  half  of  me  in  the  grave  with  her — and  the 
worms." 

He  drank  again;  laughed  and  got  to  his 
feet. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you're  bad  company  to 
night.  Let  us  go  to  the  'cellar.'  I  would 
rather  talk  to  Willis — or  any  one." 

Poe    went    out    into    the    night,    and   Dr. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     809 

Francis,  who  lingered  a  moment  to  pay  for  the 
ale  they  had  drunk,  looked  vainly  for  him  when 
he  turned  into  the  street.  He  called  his  name 
once  or  twice  but  there  was  no  answer.  He 
passed  the  church  and  went  through  to  Broad 
way  and  dipped  into  the  smoky  'cellar';  his 
friend  was  not  there,  but  he  waited,  smoking 
interminable  pipes  and  arguing  interminable 
nothings. 

In  the  meantime  Poe  was  abroad  in  the 
night,  abroad  in  the  desolate  town  of  New 
York,  abroad  with  his  dreams. 

Some  time  in  those  dark  hours  his  mind 
shaped  itself  to  a  settled  purpose.  He 
laughed  to  himself  as  the  purpose  grew  in  his 
brain — he  would  kill  the  dead!  He  was 
young;  life  might  be  his;  love  would  be  his — 
were  it  not  for  this  dead  wife  who  haunted  him. 
He  had  loved  her.  God  knows  how  well  he 
had  loved  her ! 

But  now  she  was  dead  and  had  gone  away. 
Why  should  she  come  back  to  him  and  look  at 
him  out  of  Helen's  eyes?  It  was  a  terrible 
thought  to  him  that  those  who  love  once  must 


310     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

love  forever.  Was  it  true  that  since  life  first 
began  to  brood  in  the  swaying  plants  of  the 
young  earth,  to  dream  in  the  formless  animal, 
to  waken  in  the  beast  and  man  who  howled  in 
cave  and  wood — was  it  true  that  since  then  he 
and  she  had  crept  or  run  or  flown  together? 
God  knows  if  he  loved  her — this  little  cousin 
who  had  been  wife  to  him  and  with  whom  he 
had  gone  adventuring  in  the  world  of  dreams ; 
but  forever — to  be  forever  hers!  That  she 
should  look  at  him  through  Helen's  eyes ! 

He  fled  from  the  dead  woman. 

How  he  traveled  and  where  will  never  be 
known.  He  rode  with  chimera.  Men  saw 
him  in  Philadelphia — drank  with  him,  spoke  to 
him.  Of  this  he  knew  nothing. 

One  day  he  came  into  the  city  where  he  and 
she  had  played  at  lovers,  when  they  were  chil 
dren.  He  had  not  meant  to  come  there.  Yet 
something  beckoned  to  him — something  called 
to  him.  With  stumbling  feet  and  haggard 
eyes  he  obeyed  the  voice  and  summoning  hand. 
Almost  everything  was  dead  in  him  save  the 
courage  and  the  will  that  were  essentially  his. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     311 

He  had  wayfared  so  long  with  the  ghost  of  this 
dead  woman  who  loved  him  that  hope  had  died 
out  of  him  and  he  was  weary.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  lay  his  body  down  with  her  body 
in  the  brown  earth  and  keep  his  tryst  with  her 
soul,  but  the  will  was  alive  in  him  and  the  cour 
age.  It  seemed  shameful  to  him  that  the  dead 
should  be  stronger  than  the  living.  What 
right  had  she  to  throw  a  shroud  over  his  heart 
and  his  brain  and  the  young  life  that  was  his? 
All  day  he  thought  of  these  things,  as  he  wan 
dered  through  the  city  where  he  and  his  girl- 
wife  had  loved  each  other  first. 

When  night  came  down  his  will  and  his  pur 
pose  met — so  flint  meets  steel. 

He  walked  swiftly  under  the  smoking  lamps 
down  a  narrow  street  and  came  to  a  wooden 
porch  and  a  lighted  window. 

A  door  opened  and  he  went  into  a  long,  dark 
hall.  In  the  room  at  his  left  he  heard  the 
clangor  of  a  ruined  piano  and  loud  voices.  He 
went  on.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  a  door  opened, 
and,  framed  in  the  lighted  doorway,  there 
stood  a  woman.  She  was  tall  as  a  man;  her 


312     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

face  was  colorless  and  bony — the  skin  of  it 
drawn  into  deep,  harsh  wrinkles  about  the  jaws 
and  temples;  her  eyes  were  expressionless  as 
stone.  The  woman  was  neither  old  nor  young, 
but  she  gave  the  impression  of  age — of  some 
thing  timeless  and  immortal  as  sin.  As  the 
slim,  dark  man  went  toward  her  she  stepped 
aside  and  gave  him  passage  into  the  back  room. 
A  red-covered  sofa ;  a  few  red  chairs,  a  table 
cluttered  with  glasses  and  bottles,  a  lame  nig 
ger  plucking  a  banjo;  all  this  he  saw  as  he  en 
tered.  Three  women  stood  up  and  waddled 
toward  him  with  ghastly  welcome — painted 
things,  perfumed  things,  dressed  in  blas 
phemous  white  gowns,  they  came  toward  him. 
N"o  one  of  the  three  was  young.  They  seemed 
to  be  ageless,  world-old  in  evil,  bloated  with  an 
tique  sins,  exiled  from  womanhood.  Yet  one 
was  more  hideous  than  the  others.  Hers  was 
the  puffed  face  of  a  gargoyle.  The  yellow 
hair  hung  thin  and  weak  on  her  thick  neck  and 
shoulders.  As  her  painted  lips  parted  in  a 
smile  of  monstrous  greeting,  the  poet  could  see 
the  mouth  full  of  broken  and  discolored  teeth. 


A  TENEMENT  OF  FUMES     313 

"I  will  kill  the  dead,"  he  whispered,  and  went 
toward  this  fearful  mimicry  of  womanhood; 
and  even  as  he  drew  near  her  eyes  were  not  her 
own  eyes — they  were  luminous  and  dark  and 
melancholy,  sad  and  very  quiet,  like  the  eyes  of 
one  who  has  seen  the  gray  world  beyond  the 
borderland  of  life.  And  a  voice  and  words 
rang  in  his  ears.  He  threw  up  his  arms  and 
staggered  from  the  house — into  the  black  night 
and  the  mud  of  the  street. 

"I  will  come,"  he  whispered  again  and  again. 
"Yes,  yes,  I  will  come." 

Life  seemed  to  him  like  a  tenement  of  black 
fumes  and  smoke.  He  was  fain  to  open  the 
door  and  go  out  into  the  daylight  where  she 
stood,  waiting. 

Hour  after  hour  he  wandered  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  that  had  known  their  love; 
then  he  fell,  and  men  came  and  picked  up  the 
slim,  crumpled  figure  and  carried  it  away — for 
he  was  dead. 

•  •••••• 

In  the  Valley  of  Many  Colored  Grass  there 
are  asphodels,  ruby  red,  and  pale  primroses. 


314     THE  CARNIVAL  OF  DESTINY 

Those  who  go  there  hand  in  hand  are  true 
lovers,  who,  when  they  were  on  earth,  knew  not 
where  self  began  and  love  ended.  Now  and 
then  in  the  ages  when  they  are  weary  of  happi 
ness  they  kiss  each  other  and  part.  And  one 
goes  through  the  ivory  gate  and  the  other 
through  the  gate  of  black  basalt,  but  both  go 
down  into  the  life  of  men. 

There  they  yearn  for  each  other  and  suffer 
until  they  find  each  other ;  then  they  die  and  re 
turn  to  the  Valley  of  Many  Colored  Grass, 
where  they  walk  hand  in  hand  until  they  must 
go  again  to  earth.  So  there  is  no  end  of  love ; 
nor  is  there  any  change,  forevermore. 


THE  END 


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